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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS  1807 
1897 


This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE 
DUE 

RET. 

n  A  TIT 

DUE 

RET. 

[MAR  1  2  '80 

- 

r-r-  ft- 



raid  i  q 

u 

Form  No.  513 

SISTER  JANE 

HER  FRIENDS  AND  ACQUAINTANCES 


A  NARRATIVE  OF  CERTAIN  EVENTS  AND 
EPISODES  TRANSCRIBED  FROM  THE  PAPERS 
OF  THE  LATE  WILLIAM  WORNUM 


BY 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

1897  r  ' 


Copyright,  1896, 
By  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

I.  A  Quiet  Place  1 

.11.  An  Old  Friend  16 

III.  What  the  Storm  left  at  our  Door      .      .  29 

IV.  The  Baby  is  put  to  Bed       .      .      .      .  44 
V.  Sister  Jane  takes  Boarders    .      .      .  .54 

VI.  Miss  Mary  Bullard  68 

VII.  The  Pictures  on  the  Wall      .      .      .  .83 
VIII.  The  Circus  comes  to  Town   .    *  .      .      .  98 

IX.  A  Child  is  lost  117 

X.  Free  Betsey  runs  the  Cards       .      .       .  130 
XI.  Two  Old  Friends  and  Another  ^      .      .  145 
XII.  The  Mantle  op  Charity.       .     ^.      .       .  159 

XIII.  Jincy  Meadows  comes  a-calling      .      .      .  175 

XIV.  The  Colonel's  Wife  193 

XV.  Jincy  in  the  New  Ground        ....  213 

XVI.  A  Period  of  Calm  .      .      .    -  .      .  .223 
XVII.  The  Preacher  and  the  Sermon      ...  236 
XVIII.  A  New  Boarder  at  Sister  Jane's      .      .  252 

XIX.  The  Lad's  Ride  268 

XX.  Memories  of  Clarence  Bullard  .      .      .  283 

XXI.  Two  Strangers  arrive  298 

XXII.  An  Angry  Woman  314 

XXIII.  Colonel  Bullard's  Troubles    ....  329 

XXIV.  The  End  of  the  Skein  347 


£73 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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https://archive.org/details/sisterjaneherfriOOharr_0 


SISTER  JANE. 


I. 

A  QUIET  PLACE. 

A  quiet  place  and  the  quietest  spot  in  the  quiet 
place  —  these  were  my  delight  as  soon  as  I  discov- 
ered that  life  had  no  great  honors  in  store  for  me. 
And  this  discovery  was  made  early.  There  was 
plenty  of  ambition  to  urge  me  on,  but  the  ends  it 
aimed  at  were  vague  and  shadowy.  I  would  be 
a  noted  physician,  a  great  lawyer,  or  a  renowned 
statesman;  I  would  be  a  writer  of  books,  an  ex- 
plorer, a  famous  soldier.  'Twas  all  a  passing 
fancy  —  a  dream  to  breed  pleasant  recollections 
instead  of  useless  regrets.  If  opportunity  came, 
I  knew  it  not;  it  made  no  noise  at  my  door;  there 
was  no  fluttering  of  wings  at  my  window.  No 
matter  in  what  direction  vague  desires  carried  my 
feet,  in  the  end  I  always  sighed  for  the  quiet  little 
side  porch,  shaded  by  a  honeysuckle  vine,  or  for 
the  snug  little  room  behind  the  porch  where  so 
many  years  of  my  life  had  been  spent.  They 
were  the  years  of  my  youth  and  of  my  young 
manhood,  and  somehow  I  could  not  be  brought 


2 


SJSTER  JANE. 


to  believe  they  had  been  wasted,  though  now,  at 
thirty-five,  I  was  nothing  more  than  a  modest 
practitioner  in  the  Superior  courts  of  the  Oconee 
circuit. 

The  little  porch  and  the  cosy  room  behind  it 
belonged  to  a  rambling  one-story  house  standing 
sidewise  to  one  of  the  two  main  thoroughfares  of 
the  village.  The  building  had  been  a  small  cot- 
tage of  three  rooms,  in  which  my  father  dwelt 
and  carried  on  the  tailoring  business;  but  in  times 
of  prosperity  he  had  had  the  forethought  to  add 
four  more  rooms,  so  that  now  the  house  was  in 
the  shape  of  a  big  U,  its  head  facing  the  street 
and  its  heels  stretching  toward  a  garden  that  ran 
behind  the  house  and  behind  the  stores  that  were 
ranged  along  the  southern  angle  of  the  street. 
The  sign,  "William  Wornum,  Tailoring,"  hung 
on  the  corner  next  to  the  little  porch  for  several 
years  after  my  father's  death,  but  one  windy  night 
it  came  clattering  down,  and  was  stored  away 
among  the  small  stock  of  family  relics. 

My  sister  Jane  was  the  only  mother  I  had  ever 
known.  She  was  the  eldest  by  twelve  years,  and 
most  nobly  and  fitly  did  she  fulfil  the  duties  that 
Providence  imposed  upon  her.  Whatever  sacri- 
fices she  was  called  on  to  make  —  and  they  were 
many  —  she  made  with  an  eagerness  that  went 
beyond  anything  of  the  kind  I  have  ever  seen,  or 
ever  expect  to  see,  in  this  world.  Our  father 
had  had  his  little  weaknesses  —  weaknesses  that 
are  sometimes  a  sore  trial  to  a  sensitive  and  lov- 


A  QUIET  PLACE. 


3 


ing  heart,  but  they  were  all  condoned  and  freely 
forgiven.  In  this  way  sister  Jane  became  grounded 
in  experience,  so  far  as  the  demands  of  an  exact- 
ing household  go,  long  before  she  had  grown  even 
to  young  womanhood.  It  is  perhaps  due  to  the 
doubts,  perplexities,  and  responsibilities  that  shut 
her  out  from  the  ordinary  pleasures  and  enjoy- 
ments that  should  belong  to  the  life  of  a  young 
girl,  that  her  tongue  and  temper  were  somewhat 
sharper  than  they  should  have  been.  To  those 
who  knew  her  those  characteristics  were  but  the 
twang  and  flavor  that  told  of  the  kindest  heart 
and  openest  hand  that  ever  woman  had. 

My  father  died  when  both  his  son  and  daugh- 
ter were  old  enough  to  face  the  small  world  of  the  • 
village  in  which  they  were  born  and  reared. 
They  buried  his  weaknesses  with  him,  and  thanked 
heaven  that  his  failings  had  taken  no  serious  turn. 
For  he  was  faithful  to  his  children,  industrious, 
economical,  and,  besides  the  house  that  he  had 
bought  and  paid  for,  and  to  which  he  had  made 
additions  from  time  to  time,  he  left  a  com- 
petence, which,  though  modest,  was  sufficient  to 
k  make  my  sister  comfortable  the  rest  of  her  days. 
Moreover,  he  had  taken  pains  at  odd  hours  to 
teach  her  how  to  make  men's  clothing,  and  such 
was  her  aptitude  that,  when  he  died,  she  might 
have  kept  up  the  tailoring  business  with  as  much 
success  as,  or  even  more  than,  our  father  had  won. 
But  she  contented  herself  with  obliging  only  the 
best  of  village  customers,  or  those  whom  (accord- 


4 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


Log  to  some  mysterious  rule  of  her  own)  she  had 
conceived  a  liking  for  ;  for  I  have  known  her  to 
sit  late  at  night  over  a  frock-coat  for  some  one 
who  had  no  thought  of  paying  even  the  small- 
est part  of  his  debts :  on  the-  other  hand,  I  have 
seen  her  refuse,  with  a  vigor  almost  impolite,  to 
sew  for  those  who  came  with  money  in  their 
hands. 

On  these  occasions  I  said  nothing:,  for  I  knew 

CD  1 

that  her  reasons,  however  illogical  they  might  be, 
jwere  good  and  sufficient  from  her  point  of  view, 
fiiogic  becomes  almost  impertinent  when  it  begins 
to  strut  before  the  door  of  views  and  beliefs  that 
are  unchangeable.  80  far  as  sister  Jane  was 
concerned,  the  whole  village  knew  of  her  peculiar- 
ities, her  strong  will,  her  firm  opinions,  and  the 
sharp  flavor  she  conveyed  into  the  most  ordinary 
discussions:  the  whole  village  knew  of  these,  but 
only  a  few  knew  how  thin  and  frail  a  partition 
stood  fluttering  between  the  shrewd  tongue  and 
the  tender  heart.  Xone  knew  as  I  knew  —  none 
could  know. 

Verging  on  years  of  age  my  sister  was  still 
plain  Jane  Wornum.  Her  hair  was  turning  gray, 
but  her  eye  was  as  bright  and  hei  step  as  firm  as 
ever.  Her  features  were  strong,  but  not  coarse. 
She  had  the  heartiest  laugh  ever  heard,  when  in 
the  hiunor,  but  it  was  not  wasted  on  everything 
that  came  to  her  ears  or  fell  under  her  observa- 
tion. She  had  a  firm  chin,  and  lips  that  were 
ready  at  all  times  and  under  all  circumstances 


A  QUIET  PLACE. 


5 


to  frame  the  decisive  word.  She  never  had  an 
affair  of  the  heart,  such  as  we  read  of  in  books. 
I  used  to  say  to  myself  that  if  she  had  caught 
Master  Cupid  hiding  in  her  rose  bed,  she  would 
have  run  him  off  the  place  at  the  point  of  the 
broomstick,  much  as  if  he  were  a  stray  cat.  She 
expressed  supreme  contempt  for  men  who  had  no 
knack  of  getting  along  in  the  world,  but  secretly 
pitied  them. 

As  for  myself  —  well,  I  am  not  writing  my  own 
history.  My  place  is  in  the  background  of  the 
events  and  episodes  that  are  to  be  mentioned  in 
this  chronicle.  It  may  be  said  of  them  here  that 
they  attracted  my  attention  without  seriously  dis- 
turbing my  repose.  There  is  much  that  is  preten- 
tious in  the  altitude  that  is  called  philosophical ; 
but  it  is  a  fact  well  attested  that  the  birds  sing  as 
sweetly,  the  roses  flare  forth  as  proudly,  and  the 
wind  that  steals  through  the  honeysuckle  vine  is 
as  odorous  after  a  moral  cataclysm  or  a  physical 
disturbance  as  they  were  before. 

My  own  little  porch  was  my  point  of  view  in 
pleasant  weather,  and  when  the  rain  or  the  cold 
season  came,  there  was  the  window  that  opened 
on  the  porch  and  looked  beyond  it.  This  arrange- 
ment did  not  face  the  street,  but  lay  side  wise  to 
it.  You  opened  a  wicket  gate,  went  forward  five 
paces,  mounted  three  small  steps  that  led  to  the 
porch,  turned  sharply  to  the  right,  and  there  you 
found  yourself  at  the  door  of  the  room,  which  was 
always  open  in  pleasant  weather  until  long  after 


6 


SISTER  JANE. 


the  nine  o'clock  bell  had  rung.  Beyond  the  door 
was  the  window  I  have  spoken  of,  and  a  few 
inches  farther  the  honeysuckle  vine  hung  its  frag- 
rant curtain.  The  porch  was  so  small  that  there 
was  room  only  for  a  wooden  seat  that  was  built 
along  the  side,  and  for  the  cushioned  rocker  in 
which  I  sat.  Sometimes  during  the  summer  even- 
ings the  seat  was  occupied  by  my  sister  Jane, 
but  for  the  most  part  my  sole  companion  was 
Tommy  Tinkins,  the  large  yellow  house  cat,  who 
was  either  too  old  or  too  lazy  to  waste  his  nights 
in  prowling.  The  only  occasion  on  which  he  dis- 
played anything  like  energy  was  when  his  domain 
was  invaded  by  some  strange  Tommy.  At  such 
times  Tinkins  would  slip  quietly  from  the  wooden 
seat  and  rush  into  the  garden,  from  which  pres- 
ently would  issue  a  series  of  blood-curdling  yowls. 
Then,  after  escorting  the  intruder  from  the  prem- 
ises at  race-course  speed,  Tinkins  would  return 
soberly  to  his  place  on  the  bench  and  proceed  to 
celebrate  his  victory  by  washing  his  face.  But 
as  a  rule,  in  spite  of  this  occasional  display  of 
energy,  Tommy  Tinkins  was  buried  too  deep  in 
his  own  reflections  after  nightfall  to  pay  much 
attention  to  passing  events. 

The  old  cat,  sleek  and  lazy,  was  a  great  favor- 
ite with  my  sister  Jane.  She  had  rescued  him 
from  a  crowd  of  negro  children  when  he  was 
a  small  and  disreputable -looking  kitten,  and  he 
repaid  the  care  and  attention  by  an  affection  that 
was  as  complete  and  as  touching  as  anything  of 


A  QUIET  PLACE. 


7 


the  kind  I  have  ever  seen.  He  had  a  peculiarity 
which,  although  it  is  possessed  by  some  animals, 
was  developed  in  Tommy  Tinkins  to  a  degree  that 
was  amazing.  He  was  an  infallible  reader  of 
human  character.  He  knew  instinctively  whether 
a  person  had  mean  traits  or  good  ones.  Sister 
Jane  found  out  this  gift  long  before  I  did.  She 
knew  by  the  action  of  the  cat  whether  to  trust  or 
distrust  an  acquaintance  or  a  stranger;  and  it 
finally  came  to  be  a  matter  of  common  observation 
with  both  of  us.  Whether  we®  would  or  no,  the 
Tommy  Tinkins  test  was  applied  to  all  who  crossed 
our  threshold  —  to  old  and  young,  to  familiars  as 
well  as  strangers.  If  the  cat  showed  a  disposition 
to  run  away,  or  took  refuge  under  sister  Jane's 
chair,  the  person  who  was  the  cause  of  this  distur- 
bance was  not  to  be  taken  into  our  confidence 
or  trusted  in  any  way.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
Tommy  Tinkins  made  friendly  advances  and  be- 
trayed his  satisfaction  by  walking  around,  rub- 
bing against  chair  legs  and  purring  complacently, 
the  person  who  was  the  source  of  the  manifesta- 
tions was  entirely  worthy  of  confidence. 

In  this  way,  at  one  time  and  another,  we  came 
to  know  all  our  neighbors  and  acquaintances  as 
well  as  they  knew  themselves,  and  when  some  one 
in  the  village  went  wrong  it  was  a  common  thing 
for  sister  Jane  to  exclaim,  with  an  appearance 
almost  of  satisfaction:  "What  did  Tommy  Tin- 
kins tell  you?  "  One  by  one  the  cat's  predictions 
(if  they  may  be  so  called)  came  true;  but  there 


s 


SISTER  JANE. 


was  one  exception  which  I  felt  and  said  must,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  remain  an  exception.  It 
was  the  case  of  our  good  friend,  Colonel  Cephas 
Bullard,  who,  although  he  lived  at  the  far  end  of 
the  block,  was  our  nearest  neighbor.  Our  home, 
as  I  may  have  stated  before,  was  next  to  the  stores 
and  shops  that  ran  along  the  southern  side  of  the 
square,  facing  the  stuccoed  courthouse,  and  front- 
ing the  thoroughfare  that  ran  at  right  angles  with 
our  own.  On  the  northern  corner  of  the  square 
stood  Colonel  Bullard 's  fine  mansion,  and  between 
our  humble  home  and  his  lay  the  large  garden. 
The  greater  part  of  this  garden  belonged  to  Col- 
onel Cephas,  but  there  was  no  fence  or  other 
boundary -mark  to  show  where  his  land  began  and 
ours  ended.  He  knew  and  we  knew  that  he  had 
so  many  feet  of  land ;  we  knew  and  he  knew  that 
we  had  so  many  feet;  and,  as  there  was  no  room 
for  contention,  so  there  was  no  need  of  a  bound- 
ary-mark. We  planted  asparagus  and  bachelor's 
buttons  on  his  ground,  and  he  had  planted  his 
favorite  coleworts  and  made  a  bed  of  violets  on 
ours.  It  was  the  hand  of  his  daughter  Mary  that 
planted  and  tended  the  violets ;  but  no  matter ;  I 
have  mentioned  the  fact  only  to  show  the  relations 
between  the  two  families.  When  people  use  each 
other's  land  indiscriminately  they  must  be  on  the 
best  of  terms.  "Neighborly  dealing  makes  neigh- 
borly feeling,"  as  I  have  heard  sister  Jane  say  a 
hundred  times. 

But  where  Colonel  Bullard  was  concerned,  nei- 


A  QUIET  PLACE. 


9 


tlier  neighborly  feeling  nor  neighborly  dealing 
had  any  influence  on  Tommy  Tinkins,  the  cat. 
From  the  days  of  his  innocent  kittenhood  (when 
he  chased  his  shadow  in  the  sunshine,  or  his  tail 
in  the  shade)  to  the  years  of  his  sober  maturity, 
the  appearance  of  Colonel  Bullard  in  the  garden 
or  on  the  sidewalk  was  the  signal  for  Tommy 
Tinkins  to  disappear  under  the  house  or  under 
the  bed.  And  he  only  ventured  forth  from  his 
hiding  place  with  extreme  caution,  looking  care- 
fully about  in  all  directions,  and  holding  himself 
ready  to  vanish  if  he  heard  the  colonel's  voice. 

I  had  small  patience  with  Tommy  Tinkins 's 
panic-stricken  behavior  in  so  far  as  it  concerned 
Colonel  Bullard,  and  I  often  chided  the  cat  in 
round  terms  for  running  away  from  so  amiable  a 
gentleman  and  so  friendly  a  neighbor.  But  sister 
Jane  said  nothing,  and  my  chiding  had  no  effect 
on  Tommy  Tinkins,  who  was  repose  itself  until 
the  colonel's  measured  tread  sounded  on  the  grav- 
eled garden -walk.  When  that  came  to  his  ears 
he  seemed  to  be  charged  with  all  the  energy  that 
fear  can  give  rise  to.  In  spite  of  this  Colonel 
Cephas  Bullard  was  one  of  the  most  affable  of 
men.  I  have  frequently  heard  sister  Jane  say 
that  she  would  n't  be  afraid  to  meet  the  colonel's 
ghost  at  the  dead  hour  of  night.  "It  couldn't 
help  being  polite  and  nice,"  she  explained. 

And,  indeed,  if  actions  count  for  anything,  the 
colonel  merited  the  respect  and  esteem  that  he 
had  won  in  the  community  and  all  the  praise  that 


10 


SISTER  JANE. 


his  name  suggested.  It  is  easy  to  be  affable; 
society  has  never  invented  a  thinner  mask  than 
the  formal  politeness  it  has  given  currency  to; 
but  Colonel  Cephas  Bullard  was  something  more 
than  affable.  His  politeness  had  the  old-time 
flavor  of  sincerity.  If  his  manner  sometimes  had 
the  appearance  of  condescension,  it  was  because 
of  his  natural  dignity.  His  benevolence  was  well 
known,  and  his  charity  was  so  gentle  that  his 
voice  always  sank  to  a  whisper  when  he  protested 
against  the  attacks  that  anonymous  gossip  fre- 
quently makes  on  our  neighbors  and  acquaintances. 
He  was  deeply  religious;  he  was  a  class-leader  in 
his  church,  superintendent  of  the  Sunday-school, 
and,  in  that  capacity,  frequently  delivered  the 
most  elevated  and  profitable  lectures  to  the  young 
people.  He  had  a  fine  baritone  voice,  which  he 
employed  with  fine  effect  in  leading  the  congrega- 
tional singing ;  and  rumor  went  that  in  his  young 
days  he  was  proficient  with  both  the  violin  and 
the  flute,  but  these  he  had  laid  wholly  aside  on 
account  of  their  worldly  use  and  reputation.  I 
never  passed  him  on  the  street,  nor  did  I  ever 
know  him  to  go  by  our  door,  but  he  was  humming 
a  sacred  tune.  Even  between  the  pauses  of  con- 
versation, I  have  heard  him  hum  a  bar  or  two 
from  some  air  to  be  found  in  the  "Golden  Harp," 
and  I  used  to  say  to  myself,  "Truly,  here  is  a 
man  who  has  set  his  piety  to  sweet  melodies." 

The  personal  appearance  of  Colonel  Cephas 
Bullard  fitted  his  character  like  a  glove.    He  was 


A  QUIET  PLACE. 


11 


tall  and  straight  as  a  soldier.  His  hair,  which 
had  been  auburn,  had  turned  to  what  sister  Jane 
called  "a  pepper  and  salt"  color.  He  was  not 
portly,  neither  was  he  lean.  Over  his  prominent 
nose  he  wore  spectacles.  Behind  his  glasses  (I 
never  saw  them  otherwise  except  on  one  memo- 
rable occasion),  his  eyes  were  of  a  cold  gray  color. 
His  face,  which  was  smooth  and  round  enough  to 
be  handsome,  wore  a  complacent  smile,  as  was 
becoming  to  a  man  who  was  at  peace  with  his 
Maker  and  all  the  world.  His  title  of  colonel 
was  not  a  military  one,  although,  as  I  have  said, 
he  had  the  stature  and  carriage  of  a  soldier.  It 
was  purely  a  title  of  respect,  a  mark  of  the  esteem 
in  which  he  was  held  by  his  friends  and  neighbors, 
a  tribute  to  his  moral  and  business  qualities. 
True,  it  was  a  feeble  mark  of  respect,  and  a  very 
small  tribute,  but  it  seemed  to  please  him.  He 
accepted  it,  and  adorned  it.  And  truly  he  had 
the  appearance  of  a  real  colonel  as  he  walked 
along  the  street  wearing  his  broadcloth  suit,  his 
Marseilles  waistcoat,  his  black  satin  stock,  flourish- 
ing his  gold-headed  cane  and  bowing  kindly  to  all 
whom  he  chanced  to  meet. 

His  wife  was  a  pale  little  woman,  who  rarely 
went  out  of  the  house.  Sometimes,  when  twilight 
had  taken  possession  of  the  garden,  she  would 
glide  swiftly  through  the  shrubbery,  and  have  a 
few  minutes'  friendly  chat  with  sister  Jane.  But 
she  usually  talked  in  a  tone  of  voice  hardly  lifted 
above  a  whisper,  as  if  she  were  afraid  some  one 


12 


SISTER  JANE. 


would  recognize  her  voice,  and  she  always  seemed 
to  be  in  a  hurry  to  run  home  before  any  one  had 
missed  her.  One  peculiarity  she  had  was  that 
she  either  laid  one  hand  on  sister  Jane's  arm 
while  talking,  or  touched  it  lightly  with  her  fore- 
finger whenever  she  desired  to  emphasize  a  word. 
She  had  a  beautiful  hand  and  wore  some  very 
large  and  showy  jewels  on  her  fingers.  She  must 
have  been  a  very  beautiful  girl,  but  now  there 
was  a  weary  look  in  her  eyes  that  told  either  of 
invalidism  or  trouble;  and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing about  her  that  suggested  friskiness.  'Twas 
either  a  trick  of  the  mouth  or  a  turn  of  the  hand. 
Whether  from  choice  or  no,  she  lived  a  secluded 
life;  but  on  rare  occasions  she  was  to  be  seen 
riding  out  in  the  family  carriage,  and  when  the 
Methodists  held  a  meeting,  she  was  to  be  seen 
at  church,  though  I  have  heard  it  said  she  was  a 
Presbyterian  at  heart. 

When  my  reflections  ran  in  the  direction  of  the 
colonel's  wife  I  invariably  found  myself  wrangling 
with  the  problem  she  presented.  The  more  so  as 
Tommy  Tinkins  afforded  no  clew  whatever  to  her 
character.  The  cat  neither  ran  away  at  the  sound 
of  her  voice,  nor  made  any  display  of  satisfaction 
when  she  came.  Sister  Jane  was  as  much  puzzled 
as  I  was,  for  she  always  called  her  "That  poor 
creature,"  and  I  have  noticed  that  when  one 
woman  fails  to  understand  another  with  whom  she 
is  on  friendly  terms,  she  ends  by  pitying  her. 

There  was  another  member  of  Colonel  Bullard's 


A  QUIET  PLACE. 


13 


family  that  was  more  interesting  than  either  the 
colonel  or  his  wife  —  their  daughter  Mary.  She 
was  a  study  for  those  who  love  beauty  for  its  own 
sake,  as  well  as  for  the  more  serious -minded  who 
watch  with  expectant  eyes  the  slow  but  sure 
unfolding  of  the  flower  of  womanhood.  I  had 
dandled  Mary  on  my  knee  when  she  was  a  child, 
and  twenty  times  a  day  she  used  to  run  to  me  for 
aid,  for  advice  in  her  troubles,  or  for  comfort  in 
her  childish  sorrows.  Until  she  was  twelve,  and 
I  had  turned  twenty,  we  were  companions  and 
playmates,  and  then  she  went  away  to  reap  such 
advantages  as  are  to  be  found  in  a  young  ladies' 
seminary.  When  she  returned  to  spend  her  first 
vacation  she  was  still,  in  a  sense,  the  same  girl 
who  had  gone  away  six  months  before.  But  she 
was  never  the  same  after  that.  She  was  friendly, 
even  cordial,  but  there  was  a  difference.  We  had 
no  more  romps  among  the  rose  bushes;  indeed,  it 
would  have  been  unseemly  for  an  old  fellow  to  be 
seen  capering  around;  nevertheless  I  felt  some- 
what hurt  at  the  various  manifestations  of  in- 
difference that  the  young  lady  took  no  pains  to 
conceal.  Being  sensitive  and  somewhat  diffident 
where  the  women  are  concerned,  I  drew  myself 
within  my  shell,  took  "Urn  Burial"  from  the 
book  case,  and  mentally  bade  farewell  to  the  child 
that  had  given  place  to  a  beautiful  young  girl. 

Then  came  a  year  or  two  at  some  finishing 
school  in  Philadelphia,  and,  behold!  instead  of 
the  beautiful  young  girl  who  had  gone  away, 


14 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


there  returned  to  the  village  and  her  friends  a 
more  beautiful  young  woman.  To  me,  whose 
memory  had  been  so  steadfastly  fixed  on  the  girl, 
the  woman  was  a  dazzling  revelation.  A  miracle 
had  been  performed  and  nature  had  made  no  fuss 
over  it.  I  watched  this  young  woman,  who  had 
sprung  from  the  germ  of  the  girl  I  had  known, 
with  emotions  impossible  to  describe.  But  chief 
among  them  all  were  astonishment  and  a  bewil- 
dering; sense  of  loss  —  a  sense  of  having  been 
cheated  out  of  some  precious  possession.  Strange 
to  say,  this  young  woman,  who  had  returned  to 
dazzle  us  all,  made  no  show  of  pride  or  affecta- 
tion. She  was  as  simple  and  as  natural  as  she 
had  been  when  a  little  girl;  she  brought  back 
with  her  none  of  those  airs  that  seem  to  stick, 
like  cockle  -  burrs  on  a  sheep,  to  many  young 
ladies  who  have  had  the  advantages  of  the  finish- 
ing schools;  and,  withal,  she  had  a  natural  dig- 
nity of  manner  that  made  a  charming  foil  for 
her  frankness. 

Her  attitude  toward  me  also  underwent  a  kalei- 
doscopic change.  Where  she  had  been  cool  and 
indifferent  she  was  now  friendly,  and  she  discov- 
ered to  me  by  many  pleasant  allusions  that  she 
had  not  forgotten  the  time  when  she  poured  all 
her  childish  troubles  in  my  ear.  But  the  day  had 
passed  when  I  found  myself  at  ease  in  her  pres- 
ence,  and  when  she  ran  in  to  see  sister  Jane,  which 
she  never  failed  to  do  at  least  once  a  day,  I  was 
liappy  if  I  chanced  to  be  in  my  room  or  in  the 


A  QUIET  PLACE. 


15 


little  porch,  where,  unembarrassed,  I  might  listen 
to  the  clear  tones  of  her  voice  and  picture  to 
myself  each  little  gesture  she  might  be  making; 
how  she  was  holding  her  head,  and  when  she  was 
smiling.  In  her  presence  I  felt  awkward,  old, 
and  unhappy.  She  carried  with  her  an  atmo- 
sphere so  entirely  different  from  that  in  which  I 
had  always  moved  —  she  imparted  so  much  light, 
and  warmth,  and  color  to  our  dull  and  prosy  sur- 
roundings —  that  I  was  always  glad  to  return  to 
the  solitude  that  gave  me  a  world  of  my  own, 
where,  as  the  humor  chanced  to  seize  me,  I  might 
be  president,  dictator,  or  emperor,  and  where  all 
the  treasures  of  the  world  were  mine  if  I  might 
choose  to  appropriate  them.  I  was  more  than 
content  if,  concealed  by  the  porch  and  the  fra- 
grant honeysuckle  screen,  I  might  watch  her  mov- 
ing about  the  garden,  making  the  flowers  more 
precious  by  her  presence,  or  romping  with  her 
little  brother,  a  toddler  of  uncertain  age  —  her 
movements  as  graceful  as  if  she  were  borne  along 
on  wings.  Many  and  many  a  time  I  have  seen 
her  press  a  rose  to  her  lips  and  blush  at  some  new 
thought  that  blossomed  in  her  innocent  breast. 

And  so  the  days  went  by,  she  radiant  and  happy 
and  making  all  things  lovelier  by  her  happiness, 
sister  Jane  busy  and  critical,  and  I  reasonably 
comfortable,  but  somewhat  disturbed  by  a  vague 
uneasiness  that  had  never  troubled  me  before. 


n. 

AN  OLD  FRIEND. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  my  sister  Jane  and 
myself  led  a  lonely  life.  We  had  more  company 
than  we  sometimes  found  comfortable,  and  might 
easily  have  enlarged  the  list  of  those  who  seemed 
to  find  a  pleasure  in  visiting  us.  But,  for  the 
most  part,  we  were  sufficient  to  ourselves  —  sister 
Jane  with  her  sewing  and  I  with  my  ruminations 
and  reflections.  We  cared  neither  for  the  small 
gossip  of  the  town  nor  for  the  large  questions  of 
politics,  being  content  to  feel  that  the  gossip  was 
unprofitable,  and  that  the  great  questions  would 
settle  themselves  sooner  or  later.  Howbeit,  we 
had  one  caller  who  was  as  persistent  as  the  seasons 
themselves.  This  was  Mrs.  Sally  Beshears.  Hot 
or  cold,  wet  or  dry,  we  knew  when  evening  fell 
and  the  hands  of  the  old  brass  time -piece  began  to 
turn  to  eight  o'clock,  that  Mrs.  Beshears  would 
come  limping  along  the  sidewalk  and  lift  the  latch 
of  the  gate  that  opened  near  the  porch. 

When  the  latch  clicked  on  the  stroke  of  eight,  „ 
sister  Jane  would  say,  "There's  Sally.    I  hope 
she  won't  want  me  to  give  her  nigger  boy  another 
biscuit  to-night."    Then  a  light  rap  would  fall  on 


AN  OLD  FRIEND. 


17 


the  outer  door,  and  Mrs.  Beshears  would  come  in 
leaning  on  her  walking-stick,  saying,  "I  believe 
in  my  soul  you 've  all  gone  to  bed."  Then  as  she 
opened  the  inner  door,  "Why,  no,  you  haven't, 
but  it 's  a  wonder."  And  in  Mrs.  Beshears  would 
walk,  followed  by  the  small  negro  boy,  who  trot- 
ted after  her  wherever  she  went. 

"  Come  in,  Sally,  and  take  off  your  things  and 
stay  a  while,"  sister  Jane  would  say.  "Make 
that  nigger  fetch  you  a  chair  —  I 've  got  this  press- 
board  on  my  lap,  or  I'd  fetch  it  myself." 

It  was  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again  even- 
ing after  evening,  and  yet  somehow  we  never  tired 
of  Mrs.  Beshears.  She  was  older  than  my  sister, 
being  above  sixty,  and  but  for  the  fact  that  there 
was  a  halt  in  her  walk,  the  result  of  a  fall,  she 
was  as  pert  as  a  woman  of  forty.  She  had  a  keen 
eye,  a  resolute  mind  and  sharp  tongue,  as  many 
people  knew.  Observation  had  done  for  her  what 
the  best  education  fails  to  do  for  the  great  major- 
ity of  mankind.  Her  knowledge  and  her  humor 
gave  a  spice  to  her  conversation  that  I  can  remem- 
ber and  appreciate,  but  cannot  hope  to  faithfully 
report.  She  was  a  woman  of  some  property, 
which  was  held  in  common  by  her  and  two  older 
sisters,  —  Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky  Pike,  — 
one  seventy-five  and  the  other  eighty.  Their 
place,  indeed,  was  something  of  a  plantation, 
covering  above  five  hundred  acres  of  good  land, 
just  outside  the  corporate  limits  of  the  village. 
In  addition  to  this  they  owned  twenty-five  or 


18 


SISTEB  JANE. 


thirty  sleek -looking  negroes,  who,  according  to 
report,  worked  when  in  the  humor  and  played 
when  they  pleased.  The  dwelling-house  and  all 
the  out-houses  were  relics  of  the  days  when  the 
country  round  about  was  a  wilderness.  They  were 
substantial,  but  were  built  of  logs,  and  the  chim- 
neys were  made  of  rough  stones  and  mud.  The 
hand  of  time  that  tumbles  all  material  things 
about,  had  touched  these  old  chimneys  with  some 
severity.  The  rains  had  eaten  away  the  mud  in 
the  parts  that  were  exposed  to  the  weather,  and 
they  presented  a  jagged  and  grinning  front  to  the 
passer-by.  All  things  about  the  place  were  of  the 
most  primitive  character,  so  that  they  gave  rise 
to  solemn  thoughts,  such  as  haunt  and  sometimes 
overwhelm  us  in  old  graveyards,  telling  us  of  the 
brevity  of  life  and  the  mutations  of  time. 

Two  Sundays  in  the  year,  and  sometimes  on 
the  Fourth  of  July,  my  sister  Jane  and  myself 
were  in  the  habit  of  spending  the  day  with  Mrs. 
Beshears  and  her  two  sisters,  Miss  Polly  and  Miss 
Becky.  These  old  ladies  were  spinsters,  but  the 
energy  and  individuality  of  the  family  were  cen- 
tered in  Mrs.  Beshears,  and  Miss  Polly  and  Miss 
Becky  remained  in  such  seclusion  that  their  names 
and  even  their  existence  had  been  forgotten  by 
many  people  to  whom  they  had  once  been  known. 
Miss  Polly  was  tall  and  fat,  and  Miss  Becky  was 
tall  and  lean.  Their  hands  trembled  so  that  a 
negro  boy  had  to  light  their  pipes  for  them.  But 
they  were  both  good-humored  and  seemed  to  be 


AN  OLD  FRIEND. 


19 


sincerely  glad  when  we  went  to  see  them.  Their 
dining-room  was  apart  from  the  dwelling,  and  I 
never  had  dinner  there  bnt  the  chief  feature  of 
the  meal  was  roast  goose,  over  which  sister  Jane 
said  grace  with  unction. 

Sometimes  Mrs.  Beshears  would  ask  me  to 
walk  with  her  about  the  place  to  look  at  the 
fowls,  the  pigs  and  the  horses.  "Folks  ask  me 
why  I  don't  have  the  place  fixed  up,"  she  would 
say;  "but  who  on  earth  shall  I  fix  it  up  for? 
Pap  started  to  fix  it  up,  but  he  took  sick  and  died; 
and  then  Uriah,"  (her  husband)  "he  begun  to  fix 
it  up,  and  he  took  sick  and  died.  It 's  the  living 
truth.  Now,  whoever  wants  to  fix  it  up  is  wel- 
come to  try  it.  I 'm  old  and  ugly,  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  put  on  my  cooling-board  on  account  of 
driving  a  new  set  of  nails  in  the  front  palings." 
I  could  but  acknowledge  that  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  truth  at  the  bottom  of  Mrs.  Beshears 's 
remark,  leaving  the  omen  altogether  out  of  view. 
Why  should  these  old  people  go  to  the  trouble  of 
putting  up  new  fences  and  new  gates  ?  They  had 
no  heirs  and  cared  nothing  about  appearances. 
Moreover  the  Cherokee  rose  was  rapidly  cover- 
ing the  broken-down  fences  with  its  glistening 
green  shield  and  its  fragrant  white  flowers. 

While  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  holiday  excur- 
sion for  sister  Jane  and  myself  to  visit  Mrs. 
Beshears,  yet  it  was  not  pleasing  to  sit  and  listen 
to  the  wandering  and  random  talk  of  the  two  old 
women  —  Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky  —  now  verg- 


20  SISTER  J  AXE. 

ing  on,  if  they  had  not  already  entered,  their  sec- 
ond childhood.  There  is  a  certain  charm  to  be 
found  in  the  melancholy  that  is  pressed  home  upon 
you  in  many  of  the  pages  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne. 
To  read  of  the  futility  of  fame  and  reputation, 
and  to  take  it  home  to  your  reflections  in  the  soli- 
tude of  your  room,  are  matters  that  appeal  to  the 
imagination.  But  to  be  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  futility  of  life  itself  in  the  presence  of  these 
old  ladies  left  no  room  or  excuse  for  the  perform- 
ance of  the  imagination.  Here  mortality,  with 
its  own  hands,  had  torn  off  the  thin  mask  under 
which  it  parades,  showing  the  grim  and  unseason- 
able reality.  I  doubt  not  the  lesson  would  be 
wholesome  to  those  who  have  not  the  knack  of 
reflection;  but,  as  for  me,  I  preferred  to  be  mel- 
ancholy in  my  own  way  and  at  my  own  pleasure. 

Sister  Jane,  who  was  more  practical,  perhaps, 
seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  talking  to  Miss  Polly 
and  Miss  Becky,  and  the  conversation  sometimes 
took  such  strange  terms  that  I  felt  in  my  bones 
she  was  experimenting  with  their  faculties,  see- 
ing how  far  they  had  fallen  into  decay.  Fre- 
quently they  would  fall  to  laughing  at  nothing, 
and  continue  in  the  fit  until  the  tears  ran  from 
their  eyes.  On  one  occasion  Miss  Polly  suddenly 
remarked :  — 

"La!  haven't  you  heard?  Sally's  about  to  git 
married." 

I  expected  an  explosion  from  Mrs.  Beshears, 
but  she  only  said,  "Yes,  Jane,  and  they  are  both 
as  jealous  as  they  can  be." 


AN  OLD  FRIEND. 


21 


"La!  no,  we  ain't  neither,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Becky,  bridling.  "You  may  marry  who  you 
please,  but  narry  thrip  of  our  money  do  you  git." 

"It's  as  much  mine  as  it  is  yours,"  remarked 
Miss  Polly. 

"I  don't  care  if  'tis,"  said  Miss  Becky;  "she 
won't  git  a  thrip  of  it  when  she  comes  a-bringin' 
a  young  feller  around  here  a-honeyin'  and  a-hug- 
gin'." 

"Do  you  reckon  she 's  really  fixing  to  get  mar- 
ried?" Sister  Jane  asked,  pretending  to  be  very 
serious. 

"If  she  ain't,"  cried  Miss  Becky,  "what  under 
the  sun  is  she  trapsein'  and  trollopin'  up  town  for 
every  night  the  Lord  sends?  " 

"Why,  she  comes  to  see  me,"  replied  sister,  as 
much  amazed  as  amused. 

Here  Miss  Becky  transferred  her  pipe  from  her 
mouth  to  her  trembling  hands,  closed  her  eyes, 
and  began  to  nod  her  head  emphatically.  "  Sally 
may  tell  you  that,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "and  you 
may  believe  it;  but  she  can't  fool  us,  and  she 
won't  git  narry  thrip  of  our  money." 

"Much  money  you've  got!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Beshears,  with  kindly  sarcasm. 

"She  thinks  she's  mighty  smart,"  said  Miss 
Becky,  reaching  over  and  touching  Miss  Polly  on 
the  knee. 

"Don't  she,  though!  "  exclaimed  Miss  Polly. 
I  was  curious  to  know  how  Mrs.  Beshears  would 
compose  this  senseless  quarrel;  but  't  was  the 


22 


SISTER  JANE. 


easiest  thing  in  the  world.  She  placed  her  hands 
over  her  face,  sighed  deeply,  and  turned  to  sister 
Jane  with  an  air  too  solemn  to  be  duplicated  on 
the  stage. 

"  Jane,"  said  she,  "there  's  a  vacant  room  at 
your  house.  It 's  not  a  big  room,  but  it 's  big 
enough  for  me.  I  '11  just  send  my  things  up  there 
and  come  along  myself  after  supper.  As  I  'm  not 
wanted  here,  I  '11  go  with  you.  We  '11  see,  then, 
if  money  will  wake  the  niggers  in  the  morning, 
and  make  Polly's  and  Becky's  coffee  and  sweeten 
it.    There  's  too  much  money  here  for  me." 

By  this  time  Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky  were 
sobbing,  and  if  their  tears  had  meant  anything 
more  than  the  tears  of  children  mean,  I  should 
have  laid  the  matter  up  against  Mrs.  Beshears  in 
my  mind;  but  she  soothed  them  at  once,  and  in 
a  minute  they  were  laughing  as  blithely  as  they 
had  been  crying  bitterly,  and  with  no  more  excuse 
in  one  case  than  in  the  other.  So  that  when  sister 
Jane  and  myself  bade  them  good-bye  on  that  par- 
ticular occasion,  I  carried  away  a  better  opinion 
of  Mrs.  Beshears  than  I  had  ever  had  before. 
My  first  impressions  of  her,  formed  long  ago, 
were  not  of  the  best.  Out  of  sight  and  hearing 
of  her  two  sisters  she  had  a  hectoring  way,  and  I 
think  it  was  her  natural  way.  Her  voice  was 
harsh,  and  she  had  a  way  of  saying  things  that 
left  a  sting.  But,  after  the  incident  I  have 
related,  I  was  no  longer  surprised  that  Tommy 
Tinkins,  the  cat,  should  be  so  anxious  to  run  and 


AN  OLD  FRIEND. 


23 


greet  her  when  she  came,  his  tail  carried  as  erect 
as  a  battle -flag,  and  his  back  curved  upward  to 
meet  the  hand  that  was  always  ready  to  give  him 
a  friendly  touch.  I  knew,  too,  that  when  she  had 
put  her  aged  and  decrepit  children  to  bed  the  im- 
pulse to  escape  from  her  surroundings,  by  visiting 
sister  Jane,  was  more  than  she  could  resist;  and 
so  it  happened  that  her  company  came  to  be  as 
agreeable  to  me  at  last  as  it  had  been  to  sister 
Jane  from  the  first. 

She  always  called  me  William,  having  known 
me  from  a  child,  and  seemed  to  keep  a  watchful 
eye  on  my  moods,  for  when,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pened, I  remained  in  the  room  after  she  came, 
instead  of  going  to  my  own,  she  would  say  at 
precisely  the  right  moment:  "Well,  William, 
you  can  go  and  do  your  moping  by  yourself. 
Jane  and  I  have  some  matters  that  we  want  to 
talk  about."  This  took  from  me  the  excuse  of 
politeness  and  sent  me  off  whether  or  no,  for 
which  I  was  duly  grateful.  Many  a  time  I  have 
listened  and  waited  for  sister  Jane  and  Mrs. 
Beshears  to  lower  their  voices  in  talking  over 
these  confidential  "matters."  But  they  kept  right 
on  in  the  old  familiar  strain,  and  in  this  way  I 
found  that  Mrs.  Beshears's  confidential  "matters  " 
were  purely  mythical,  invented  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  me  an  excuse  to  return  to  my  books  ' or  my 
reflections,  as  whim  or  fancy  might  lead  me. 

I  could  sit  in  my  room  or  on  the  little  porch 
and  hear  every  word  the  two  old  friends  said,  and 


24 


SISTER  JANE. 


was  under  no  necessity  of  affecting  an  interest  I 
did  not  feel.  Howbeit,  a  great  many  things  they 
said  were  sufficiently  interesting  as  well  as  amus- 
ing. On  one  occasion  I  heard  a  conversation  be- 
tween Mrs.  Beshears  and  sister  Jane  that  gave 
me  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  I  could  not  account  for. 

"Mary  Bullard  hollered  '  howdye  '  at  me  as  I 
limped  by,"  remarked  Mrs.  Beshears.  "When 
is  she  going  to  git  married?  'T  won't  be  long,  I 
reckon." 

"The  Lord  knows.  I  hope  she'll  get  a  good 
husband.  You  know  how  it  is  —  good  woman, 
shiftless  man;  good  man,  tacky  woman.  Provi- 
dence has  paired  them  off  that  way,  I  reckon." 

"It  looks  so,"  said  Mrs.  Beshears.  "Why 
don't "  —  if  she  mentioned  a  name  it  never  reached 
my  ears;  it  struck  me  afterwards  that  she  wrote 
it  in  the  air  with  her  forefinger.  "Why  don't  — 
drop  his  wing  and  cut  the  double-shuffle  around 
her?    I  lay  that  would  fetch  her." 

There  was  a  long  pause  during  which  I  imag- 
ined  that  sister  Jane  was  dampening  the  seams  of 
a  trouser  leg,  preparatory  to  pressing  them,  an 
operation  which  she  always  performed  in  silence. 
Presently  she  remarked,  in  a  lower  tone  of  voice 
than  usual :  — 

"Why,  bless  your  soul,  child,  he  wouldn't  do 
at  all.  He  hasn't  got  the  chink.  He  don't  belong 
to  the  big-bugs." 

"And  what  if  he  don't?  What  if  he  don't?" 
asked  Mrs.  Beshears  with  a  touch  of  indignation 


AN  OLD  FRIEND. 


25 


in  her  tones.  "  Ain't  he  every  bit  and  grain  as 
good  as  any  of  the  Bullards  that  the  Lord  ever 
let  live  on  the  earth? "  Sister  Jane  said  nothing; 
she  was  probably  testing  the  warmth  of  her  tailor's 
goose ;  and  Mrs.  Beshears  went  on,  her  voice  be- 
coming more  strained  and  tense:  "If  you  talk 
and  feel  that  way,  Jane  Wornum,  don't  never  up 
and  tell  me  that  you  know  Cephas  Bullard,  be- 
cause you  don't.  But  old  Sally  Beshears  knows 
him  through  and  through,  up  and  down.  Why,  le' 
me  tell  you,  Jane  Wornum!  Cephas  Bullard"  — 

"Sh-sh-h!  "  whispered  sister  Jane,  loud  enough 
for  me  to  hear.  She  probably  jerked  her  thumb 
or  waved  her  hand  in  my  direction. 

"I  don't  care,"  cried  Mrs.  Beshears,  louder 
than  ever.  "I  don't  care  who  hears  me,  not  if 
it 's  old  Cephas  himself.  The  next  time  you  see 
him  jest  ask  him  where  his  brother  is  and  what 
has  become  of  his  brother's  property;  and  if  he 
wants  to  know  how  come  you  to  ask  him,  jest  up 
and  tell  him  that  old  Sal  Beshears,  cross-eyed  and 
crippled,  told  you  to  ask  him.  And  if  that  don't 
make  him  flinch,  it  '11  be  because  the  Old  Boy  's 
done  took  possession  of  him." 

Sister  Jane  made  some  comment  in  a  tone  of 
voice  too  low  for  me  to  hear,  though  I  was  listen- 
ing with  all  my  ears. 

"Oh,  I  don't  doubt  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Be- 
shears. "Mary  'd  be  an  angel  if  this  climate 
suited  angels.  She  's  as  good  as  she  's  handsome, 
and  that 's  more  'n  you  can  say  for  the  common 


26  .  SIS  TEH  J  AXE. 

run  of  gals.  Why,  she  's  just  as  different  from 
old  Cephas  as  she  is  from  old  Jonce  Ashfield." 

This  was  putting  it  pretty  strong,  for  old  Jonce 
was  noted  far  and  wide  as  an  irredeemable  toss- 
pot. A  long  silence  followed  this  surprising  re- 
mark —  a  silence  that  was  finally  broken  by  Mrs. 
Beshears. 

"I  believe  in  my  soul  Mary's  in  love  with  him," 
she  said. 

"With  ?  "  asked  sister  Jane.    Could  it  be 

possible  that  she,  too,  wrote  the  name  in  the 
empty  air  with  her  forefinger?  If  so  much  as  a 
murmur  of  it  had  passed  her  lips  it  would  have 
come  to  my  ears. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Beshears.  "She  came  to 
my  house  the  other  day,  with  her  little  brother, 
hunting  sweet-gum,  and  I  teased  her  about  him. 
She  blushed  might  'ly  and  looked  as  purty  as  a 
peach.  She  looked  at  me  much  as  if  she  'd  say, 
'  Hey,  old  lady!  how 'd  you  find  out  my  secret? ' 
And  I  ups  and  says,  says  I,  4  Ah,  honey,  inno- 
cence don't  know  how  to  hide  its  heart  from  eyes 
that  are  old  and  sharp.'  " 

"Well,  I  hope  it  ain't  so,"  remarked  sister 
Jane,  after  a  while. 

"Why?"  asked  Mrs.  Beshears,  plumply. 

"Because  "  —  Here  sister  Jane  paused  and  got 
no  further  in  her  explanation. 

"Fudge!  fiddlesticks!"  cried  Mrs.  Beshears. 
"A  whole  quintillion  of  becauses  ain't  as  big  as 
a  grain  of  sand  in  a  matter  of  that  kind." 


AN  OLD  FRIEND.  27 

I  heard  no  more  of  that  conversation,  for  I  went 
out  into  the  garden  bare-headed  and  walked  for 
an  hour  up  and  down  trying  to  get  rid  of  a  feeling 
of  strange  uneasiness  that  possessed  me,  and  for 
which  I  could  not  account.  It  was  a  feeling  as 
near  to  fear  as  any  I  ever  had,  and  there  was  a 
queer  buzzing  in  my  head.  After  walking  for  an 
hour,  I  felt  better,  and  then  I  went  into  my  room 
and  went  to  bed,  promising  myself  to  be  careful 
of  my  diet  hereafter. 

Next  morning,  the  first  'thing  that  popped  into 
my  mind  was  the  conversation  of  the  night  before, 
and  at  breakfast  I  tried  to  broach  the  subject. 

"Sister  Jane,"  said  I,  "didn't  Mrs.  Beshears 
say  last  night  that  Mary  Bullard  was  to  be  mar- 
ried shortly?  " 

"If  she  did,  I  didn't  hear  her,"  replied  sister 
Jane,  decisively. 

"But  I 'm  sure,"  I  persisted,  "that  I  heard  her 
say  Mary  is  in  love  with  some  one." 

"No,  Sally  didn't  say  that,"  sister  Jane  an- 
swered. "She  said  she  thought  Mary  was  in 
love." 

"Who  is  the  happy  man?  "  I  asked. 

"You,  I  reckon,"  said  sister  Jane,  giving 
Tommy  Tinkins  a  morsel  of  meat. 

I  felt  the  blood  mount  to  my  face,  and  then 
rise  upward  to  the  very  roots  of  my  hair.  "Non- 
sense !  Why,  you  must  "take  me  for  a  nincom- 
poop.   I  'm  no  child  for  you  to  play  with." 

At  this,  sister  Jane  fell  to  laughing  and  con- 


28 


SISTER  JANE. 


tinued  until  she  was  on  the  verge  of  convulsions, 
and  I  was  painfully  conscious  that  my  red  face 
and  my  efforts  to  maintain  my  dignity  were  the 
cause  of  her  merriment. 

"Don't  you  know,"  she  remarked  when  she 
could  control  her  voice,  "that  I 'm  not  going  to 
blab  everything  Sally  Beshears  tells  me?" 

Thereupon,  I  rose  from  the  table  and  strode 
out  of  the  room  feeling  very  much  offended.  But 
I  paused  at  the  door  long  enough  to  hear  sister 
Jane  say  to  Tommy  Tinkins. 

"Well,  well,  well!  If  men  ain't  fools,  I  wish 
somebody  'd  show  me  a  sure  enough  one !  " 

But  all  these  things  passed  out  of  my  mind  as 
the  season  passes,  and  my  thoughts  fell  back  into 
their  old  channels,  where  doubtless  they  would 
have  remained  but  for  a  circumstance  that  stirred 
our  little  household  as  it  had  never  been  stirred 
before  —  a  circumstance  that  brought  about  unex- 
pected complications,  and  changed  the  course  of 
more  than  one  life. 


III. 


WHAT  THE  STOEM  LEFT  AT  OUR  DOOR. 

One  night  in  the  winter  of  1848  —  I  think  it 
was  the  17th  of  January  —  I  was  sitting  in  my 
room  ruminating  as  usual.  The  fire  on  the  hearth 
had  burned  low,  the  weather  having  been  rainy 
and  warm  during  the  day.  Through  the  closed 
door,  I  heard  the  subdued  hum  of  conversation  be- 
tween Mrs.  Beshears  and  my  sister  Jane,  and  it 
made  my  solitude  more  cheerful.  Once,  hearing 
the  whistle  of  the  rising  wind,  I  looked  from  the 
door,  and  saw  that  the  rain-clouds  that  had  been 
coming  from  the  west  all  day  were  now  driving 
swiftly  before  a  northwest  wind.  Patches  of  dark- 
blue  sky  showed  here  and  there  in  the  zenith,  and 
in  these  ,the  stars  twinkled  as  freshly  as  if  they 
had  been  washed  clean  by  the  white  vapors  that 
went  whirling  through  the  sky. 

By  the  time  the  nine  o'clock  bell  had  rung,  the 
temperature  had  fallen  considerably,  and  I  was 
compelled  to  replenish  my  fire.  The  northwest 
wind  increased  to  a  gale,  and  presently  I  heard 
the  tinkling  spatter  of  sleet  as  the  wind  hurled  it 
against  my  window -blinds.  Sometimes  the  wind 
would  rise  away  from  the  earth  and  roar  in  the 


30 


SISTER  JANE. 


tops  of  the  trees  and  chimneys ;  then  it  would  fall 
to  the  ground  again,  bringing  with  it  a  blast  of 
cutting  sleet.  Mrs.  Beshears  had  stayed  longer 
than  usual,  and  I  wondered  how  she  and  the 
negro  boy  who  always  accompanied  her  would 
manage  to  get  home  through  the  storm.  Worried 
somewhat  by  this  thought,  I  rose  from  my  rock- 
ing-chair and  walked  nervously  about  the  room. 
Suddenly  I  heard  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  side- 
walk. What  they  said  at  first  was  drowned  by 
the  roaring  wind,  but  presently  I  heard  a  woman's 
voice :  — 

"I  ain't  goin'  narry  step,  an'  you  can't  make 
me.    I'll  die  fust." 

Then  came  the  voice  of  a  man:  "Ef  you  don't 
come,  you'll  rue  it.  You've  come  this  fur;  you 
might  as  well  go  furder.  Come  on,  I  tell  ye;  I  '11 
call  'em  to  the  door." 

"I  won't!"  exclaimed  the  woman.  "I  won't 
and  I  shan't!" 

There  was  an  ominous  pause.  The  woman 
cried  out  again:  "Mind  now!  Ef  you  hit  me, 
I  '11  holler.    You  can't  keep  me  from  hollerin'." 

"You  slut!"  said  the  man,  his  voice  choked 
and  shaking  with  rage.  "You  slut!  Don't  you 
never  dast  to  let  me  see  your  face  ag'in.  I  '11 
murder  you  ef  you  do!  " 

"Hoity-toity!  "  I  said  to  myself.  "What 's  all 
this  about  at  such  a  time  of  night?"  and  I  made 
up  my  mind,  if  any  more  threats  were  made  by 
the  man,  to  go  out  and  give  him  a  genteel  pummel- 


WHAT  THE  STORM  LEFT  AT  OUR  DOOR.  31 

ing,  dark  as  it  was.  I  imagined  I  heard  some  one 
raise  the  latch  of  the  gate,  and  I  thought,  too, 
that  I  heard  a  shuffling  sound  on  the  little  porch, 
but  on  a  stormy  night  the  mind  has  ears  of  its 
own,  and  has  a  habit  of  conjuring  up  every  sound 
that  the  physical  ears  would  be  unlikely  to  hear. 
So  I  traced  the  click  of  the  latch  and  the  shuffling 
on  the  porch  to  some  queer  trick  of  the  wind. 

And  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  account  for  the 
savage  dialogue  that  came  to  my  ears  through  the 
walls.  Three  miles  from  the  village  there  was  a 
cotton  factory  that  had  just  been  put  in  operation. 
It  was  a  small  affair,  indeed,  but  it  had  already 
gathered  about  it  a  class  of  population  that  seemed 
to  me  to  be  somewhat  undesirable.  The  men 
had  already  begun  to  straggle  into  town  after  fac- 
tory hours,  and  the  most  of  them,  when  they  went 
straggling  back,  carried  a  jug  of  rum  home  with 
them,  besides  the  drams  they  had  inside  their 
skins.  They  were  as  lanky  and  as  lousy -looking 
a  set  as  I  had  ever  seen  —  pale,  cadaverous,  and 
careworn  —  veritable  "clay  eaters,"  as  I  have 
heard  sister  Jane  call  them.  What  more  nat- 
ural than  that  one  of  these  men,  coming  to  the 
village  after  a  jug  of  rum,  should  be  followed  by 
his  wife ;  that  both  should  have  taken  a  dram  too 
much ;  and  that  they  were  in  a  somewhat  maudlin 
condition  when  they  paused  under  the  eaves  of 
my  room  to  carry  on  a  meaningless  quarrel?  I 
had  dismissed  the  matter  from  my  mind  when 
I  heard  Mrs.  Beshears  coming  along  the  hall- 


32 


SISTER  JANE. 


way,  followed  by  sister  Jane  (as  usual)  with  a 
lighted  candle. 

"Gone  to  bed,  William?  "  cried  Mrs.  Beshears, 
briskly  tapping  on  the  inner  door. 

"Come  in,"  I  replied.  "I  have  been  waiting 
to  escort  you  home." 

"Me?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Beshears,  in  some  as- 
tonishment. "Oh,  my!  Think  of  that,  Jane! 
What  a  compliment!  "  She  curtsied  in  a  way 
that  I  had  not  thought  her  capable  of.  "Do  you 
reely  think,  Jane,  that  a  young  thing  like  me 
ought  to  trust  herself  alone,  or  as  good  as  alone, 
with  as  gay  a  beau  as  William  is?  No,  I  thank 
you,  William.  I  won't  pester  you  to  go  to-night. 
Some  other  night,  when  the  moon  is  shining,  and 
the  wind  ain't  so  high." 

"But,"  I  persisted  in  all  seriousness,  "there 
has  been  a  tremendous  change  in  the  weather. 
Sleet  is  falling,  even  now.  The  wind  will  blow 
you  away." 

"And  what  would  you  be  doin',  William? 
A-hanging  on  to  my  frock,  and  a-squalling,  I  '11 
be  bound.  And  folks  'd  stick  their  heads  out  o' 
the  windows,  and  say :  '  Run  here,  everybody, 
and  look!  Yonder  goes  the  old  witch  a-flying 
high,  with  a  young  man  to  help  her  sweep  off  the 
sky. '  No,  William ;  I  know  you  mean  what  you 
say,  but  by  the  time  you 've  faced  as  many  storms 
as  old  Sally  Beshears,  you  won't  never  want  any- 
body to  put  themselves  out  for  you.  Bless  your 
heart,  honey!    Here's  what's  faced  wind  and 


WHAT  THE  STORM  LEFT  AT  OUR  DOOR.  33 


rain,  sleet  and  hail,  these  many  long  years,  with 
abundance  of  thunder  flung  in  for  good  measure." 

"I  've  begged  and  begged  her  to  stay  all  night, 
but  she  won't  listen  to  that,"  remarked  sister  Jane. 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Beshears,  shaking 
her  head  and  rapping  on  the  floor  with  her  cane. 
"I  know  I 'm  jest  as  welcome  as  anybody  could 
be,  and  I 'd  stay,  if  I  could,  if  only  for  the  sakes 
of  that  nigger  boy.  I 'm  a  red-eyed  tory  if  I 
don't  believe  he  '11  have  every  stitch  o'  clothes 
blow'd  off  of  him  before  he  gits  to  the  next  cor- 
ner. And  that  '11  be  more  patching  and  sewing 
for  me  —  and  the  Lord  knows  I  have  enough  of 
that.  No,  folks,  I  can't  stay.  If  them  two 
babies  of  mine  was  to  wake  up  in  the  night  and 
miss  me,  they  'd  git  to  wandering  hither  and  yon 
in  the  dark,  and  they  might  fall  and  hurt  them- 
selves, poor  old  souls! " 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  after 
that,  so  I  stationed  myself  at  the  door  ready  to 
open  and  close  it  as  quickly  as  possible,  while 
sister  Jane,  as  was  her  nightly  habit,  poised  the 
candle  so  as  to  hold  it  above  her  head,  as  if  by 
that  means  to  light  Mrs.  Beshears  on  her  way. 

"Come  on,  little  nigger.  I  'in  mighty  sorry  for 
you,  but  I  can't  keep  the  wind  from  blowing  nor 
the  sleet  from  sleeting." 

But  she  was  careful  to  tie  around  his  neck  the  big 
knitted  scarf  which  she  had  worn  over  her  head, 
wrapping  her  cape  around  her  own  ears.  Then 
sister  Jane  came  to  the  rescue  with  her  big  striped 


34 


SISTER  JANE. 


shawl,  and,  in  a  moment,  Mrs.  Beshears  was 
ready  for  her  homeward  journey. 

"Good-night,  folks,"  she  said  once  more.  "If 
it  keeps  on  blowing  I  '11  likely  not  come  to-morrow 
night,  Jane,  and  if  William  cries  about  it,  le'  me 
know.    Come  on,  little  nigger." 

As  sister  Jane  held  the  candle  above  her  head, 
I  opened  the  door,  and  as  Mrs.  Beshears  and  the 
negro  slipped  out,  tried  to  push  it  quickly  to.  But 
the  storm  was  quicker.  The  wind  swirled  in, 
caught  the  door  and  held  it  against  all  my  strength, 
blew  out  the  candle,  and  sent  the  sparks  and  ashes 
flying  out  of  the  fireplace  all  over  the  room.  It 
was  the  work  of  a  moment.  Sister  Jane  dropped 
the  candle,  gave  a  little  shriek  of  dismay,  and  ran 
about  the  room,  knocking  the  sparks  and  coals 
from  the  counterpane  and  curtains,  and  from  the 
rug.  She  had  hardly  begun  to  do  this,  when  there 
came  a  tremendous  thumping  at  the  door,  which  I 
had  managed  to  close,  and  we  heard  Mrs.  Beshears 
screaming  so  as  to  make  herself  heard  above  the 
rush  and  roar  of  the  storm : 

"Jane!  Jane!  William!  For  God  A 'mighty 's 
sake  come  here!    William!  Jane!" 

Then  she  began  to  beat  frantically  on  the  pan- 
els with  her  walking-cane.  I  jumped  to  the  door 
at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  but  in  my  haste  and 
confusion  I  forgot  to  turn  the  key,  and  stood 
turning  and  wrenching  the  bolt.  Mrs.  Beshears 
must  have  divined  the  trouble,  for  she  screamed 
from  the  other  side :  — 


WHAT  THE  STORM  LEFT  AT  OUR  DOOR.  35 


"Unlock  the  door!  Here's  somebody  dead  or 
a-dying! " 

At  last  habit,  more  than  presence  of  mind, 
came  to  my  assistance.  I  turned  the  key  mechan- 
ically, drew  back  the  bolt,  and  the  wind  burst  the 
door  open.  By  this  time  sister  Jane  had  thrust 
a  handful  of  fat  pine  splinters  in  the  fireplace, 
and  now  held  the  flaming  torch  aloft. 

"It's  a  woman!"  gasped  Mrs.  Beshears.  "A 
woman  and  a  baby.    I  found  out  that  much!  " 

It  is  wonderful  how  active  the  mind  is  in  mo- 
ments of  extreme  excitement,  and  how  prone  the 
memory  is  to  seize  and  register  the  most  trifling 
details. '  With  one  glance  I  saw  that  sister  Jane 
was  pale,  but  composed,  that  Mrs.  Beshears  was 
white  as  a  ghost,  that  sister  Jane's  big  tortoise- 
shell  comb  had  fallen  from  her  head,  and  that  one 
of  Mrs.  Beshears 's  big  crescent-shaped  ear-rings 
had  been  loosed  from  its  fastening.  'Twas  all  as 
momentary  as  the  lightning's  flash.  It  was  for- 
tunate indeed  that  in  the  very  nick  and  point  of 
time  the  little  negro  boy,  who  was  clinging  con- 
vulsively to  the  skirts  of  his  mistress,  should  sud- 
denly set  up  a  series  of  shrieks  and  yells  which, 
being  wholly  unreasonable,  and  therefore  irritat- 
ing, served  to  recall  us  all  to  our  senses. 

"Sally,  for  the  Lord's  sake  give  that  imp  a 
'cuff  that  '11  take  his  breath  away,"  said  sister 
Jane. 

This  timely  advice  was  promptly  followed,  and 
the  confusion  and  excitement  we  had  all  felt  a 


30 


SISTER  JANE. 


moment  before  were  sensibly  allayed.  I  stepped 
on  the  porch,  and,  by  the  dim  light  of  the  pine- 
torch  held  aloft  by  sister  Jane,  saw  a  woman  hud- 
dled in  one  corner.  Her  feet  were  stretched  out, 
and,  from  having  been  in  a  sitting  posture,  her 
head  had  drooped  forward  until  it  touched  a  bun- 
dle she  had  in  her  lap.  Around  this  bundle  her 
arms  were  twined.  I  soon  found  she  was  not 
dead,  for  she  moved  and  a  rigor  shook  her  frame 
when  I  laid  my  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Get  up  and  come  in  the  house,"  I  said,  shak- 
ing her  by  the  arm.  "Come!  Get  up!  You'll 
freeze  out  here." 

She  raised  her  head,  shook  back  her  hair,  and 
glanced  wildly  about  her. 

"I  won't  go  up  yonder!"  she  moaned.  "I'll 
die  fust!  Oh,  me!  Why  —  why  —  why  can't  I 
die  an'  be  done  with  it?" 

It  was  the  pitifullest  cry  that  had  ever  come  to 
my  ears.  It  reached  sister  Jane's,  too,  for.  she 
threw  her  torch  in  the  fire,  came  forward,  and 
took  command. 

"Lift  her  by  that  arm,  William,  and  I  '11  lift 
her  by  this.  Get  up,  and  come  in  the  house. 
This  is  no  place  for  you  out  here.  Come,  let 's 
go  to  the  fire." 

Sister  Jane's  voice  was  so  firm,  and  yet  so  kind 
and  sympathetic  that  the  woman  looked  up  in  a 
dazed  way. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  asked,  brushing  her  hair 
back  with  her  finger. 


WHAT  THE  STORM  LEFT  AT  OUR  DOOR.  37 

"Nobody,  much,"  replied  sister  Jane,  "and  if 
you  keep  me  standing  out  here  in  the  cold,  I 
won't  be  anybody  at  all." 

"Won't  you  go  in  'less  I  go?"  asked  the 
woman. 

"No,  I  won't!  "  said  sister  Jane,  decisively. 

Without  another  word  the  woman  rose  to  her 
feet  with  our  help,  and  went  in  the  house.  I  was 
truly  glad  when  the  door  was  closed,  for  the 
weather  was  bitter  cold  —  the  coldest,  it  was  said 
afterwards,  that  had  ever  been  experienced  by  the 
oldest  inhabitant.  Sister  Jane  carried  the  woman 
into  her  own  room,  where  there  was  a  warm  fire, 
followed  by  Mrs.  Beshears,  who  was  moved  by 
both  sympathy  and  curiosity. 

The  woman  was  duly  installed  in  the  big  rock- 
ing-chair, and,  by  the  uncertain  light  of  the  can- 
dle, presented  a  picture  so  forlorn,  so  desolate, 
and  so  miserable  that  I  hope  never  to  see  its  like 
again.  It  was  not  the  faded  sunbonnet  that  she 
tried  hard  to  pull  over  her  eyes,  nor  the  shabby 
dress,  nor  the  coarse  and  muddy  shoes,  nor  all 
these  together.  They  were  the  merest  accessories. 
The  forlornness  and  misery  lay  deeper,  in  some 
subtile  way  presenting  themselves  to  the  mind 
rather  than  to  the  eye. 

"Let  me  take  your  bonnet,"  said  sister  Jane. 

"I  don't  mind  it;  it  don't  bother  me,"  replied 
the  woman. 

"It 's  better  off,"  persisted  sister  Jane,  as  she 
gently  and  deftly  untied  the  strings. 


38 


SISTER  JANE. 


"I  reckon  my  head 's  a  plum  sight,"  said  the 
woman,  true  to  her  sex. 

The  one  glance  that  I  got  of  her  face  when  her 
bonnet  came  off  —  for  she  bent  her  head  over  the 
bundle  in  her  arms  —  showed  that  she  was  quite 
a  young  woman,  not  more  than  twenty  at  the 
most.  Her  hair  was  as  black  as  a  crow's  wing 
and  as  sheeny.  I  judged  that  if  she  were  fur- 
nished forth  with  the  tassels  and  toggery  of 
fashion,  she  would  be  strikingly  handsome.  So 
far  as  I  could  see,  Mrs.  Beshears  had  not  be- 
stowed a  glance  on  the  young  woman,  but  sat 
gazing  steadily  into  the  bed  of  hickory  coals,  tap- 
ping the  andiron  gently  with  the  end  of  her  cane. 
Presently  she  turned  in  her  chair. 

"What  have  you  got  in  that  bundle?  " 

"Nothing  but  a  little  bit  of  a  baby,"  replied 
the  young  woman,  hugging  it  closer  to  her  bosom. 

"A  baby!  "  exclaimed  sister  Jane. 

"Yes'm.  An'  ef  he  don't  pester  me,  I  don't 
see  how  he  can  pester  anybody."  Hearing  no 
comment  on  this,  the  young  woman  looked  up.  I 
could  see  despair  in  her  eyes;  I  could  see  misery 
in  the  flutter  of  her  nostrils,  and  in  the  droop  of 
her  mouth.  Hopelessness,  friendlessness  —  all  the 
misfortunes  that  go  trooping  after  sin  —  had  set 
their  seal  on  that  face. 

How  she  misread  the  sympathy  that  was  written 
in  every  line  of  sister  Jane's  face,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  understand,  for  tears  were  standing 
in  those  honest  eyes.    But  the  young  woman  half 


WHAT  THE  ST  OEM  LEFT  AT  OUR  DOOR.  39 


rose  from  her  chair  and  began1  to  gather  the  thin 
and  shabby  shawl  more  closely  around  the  child. 

"Gi'  me  my  bonnet,  an'  I'll  go,"  she  said. 
"I  know 'd  in  reason  I  ought  not  to  'a'  come  in 
here.  I  ain't  got  no  more  business  in  this  house 
than  I  've  got  on  the  inside  of  a  church,  an'  that 's 
the  Lord's  truth.  Show  me  the  door,  please, 
ma'am.  The  cold  ain't  no  more  to  me  than  the 
heat,  an'  the  night 's  lots  better  than  the  day. 
I 've  brung  mud  in  your  house  on  my  shoes. 
Where's  my  bonnet?  Thess  gi'  me  my  bonnet. 
It 's  all  the  head-wear  I 've  got  left." 

"Sit  down,"  said  sister  Jane.  "Give  me  that 
child.    If  it  ain't  frozen,  it  ain't  your  fault." 

"No 'm !  No 'm !  "  protested  the  woman.  " Le' 
me  go  —  I  must  go!  I  didn't  want  to  come  in, 
but  you  all  took  an'  drug  me.  I  ain't  no  more 
wuth  your  thought  than  the  four-footed  creeturs 
in  the  woods.    Gi'  me  my  bonnet." 

"  Sit  down !  I  tell  you  to  sit  down !  Give  me 
that  child."  Sister  Jane's  commands  were  given 
in  a  tone  that  convinced  the  woman  that  't  would 
be  unreasonable  as  well  as  useless  to  resist,  so  she 
sank  back  in  the  rocking-chair,  and  surrendered 
the  bundle  into  arms  that  had  not  borne  such  a 
burden  in  thirty -odd  years.  Holding  the  bundle 
first  on  one  arm  and  then  on  the  other,  (to  further 
the  process  of  unwrapping),  sister  Jane  took  off 
the  blanket  or  shawl  —  whatever  it  was,  it  was 
shabby  enough  —  and  in  a  moment  there  was  dis- 
closed to  our  curious  eyes  a  fat  and  rosy,  but 


40 


SISTER  JANE. 


extremely  sleepy  infant.  The  woman  had  already 
indicated  that  it  was  a  boy,  and  he  was  certainly 
a  fine  one  to  all  outward  appearances.  As  sister 
Jane  held  him  up  to  get  a  good  view  of  his  face, 
his  head  wabbled  about  on  his  shoulders,  and  he 
half  opened  his  eyes.  Then  he  smiled,  and  leaned 
his  head  against  my  sister's  bosom.  Whereupon 
she  laughed  aloud. 

"I  declare!  He's  about  the  cutest  thing  I 
ever  saw!"  she  cried.  "Look  at  him,  Sally  — 
he 's  right  now  as  happy  as  a  lord." 

"He  ain't  cold,  is  he?"  asked  Mrs.  Beshears, 
going  forward  to  inspect  him. 

"Why,  he's  as  warm  as  a  toast,"  said  sister 
Jane,  as  proudly  as  if  she  had  been  the  means  of 
keeping  him  warm. 

"How  old  is  he?"  asked  Mrs.  Beshears,  turn- 
ing to  the  mother. 

But  there  was  no  answer  from  that  quarter. 
The  woman's  right  hand  hung  limp  by  her  side; 
the  other  was  caught  in  the  partially  open  bosom 
of  her  dress.  Her  head  had  fallen  to  one  side, 
and  all  the  color  had  left  her  face. 

"Take  this  child,  William!"  exclaimed  sister 
Jane,  thrusting  the  baby  into  my  lap.  No  doubt 
I  held  him  awkwardly  enough,  but  I  cuddled  him 
up  in  my  arms  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  which, 
in  this  direction,  at  least,  was  poor  enough. 

With  a  promptness  and  decision  beyond  all 
praise,  sister  Jane  seized  the  sponge  which  she 
used  to  dampen  cloth  before  pressing  it,  dipped 


WHAT  THE  STORM  LEFT  AT  OUR  DOOR.  41 


it  in  a  pan  of  cold  water  that  was  always  within 
reach,  and  applied  it  to  the  face  and  wrists  of  the 
poor  woman,  whose  fainting-spell  was  the  result 
of  a  reaction  from  the  strain  that  misfortune  and 
exposure  had  imposed  upon  her.  She  was  young 
and  robust,  but  fainting-spells  seem  to  be  a  part 
of  the  equipment  of  the  sex,  and  are  intended,  no 
doubt,  to  shield  them  from  the  most  acute  forms 
of  mental  and  physical  anguish. 

The  woman  was  soon  revived,  and,  after  a  glass 
of  muscadine  wine,  which  sister  Jane  had  made 
with  her  own  hands,  and  which  was  uncorked  only 
on  the  rarest  occasions  —  after  a  glass  of  this  pun- 
gent and  aromatic  wine,  the  woman  was  as  well 
as  before.  Better,  in  fact,  for  the  forlorn  expres- 
sion slowly  died  out  of  her  face,  the  color  found 
its  way  back  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  grew 
brighter. 

"How  old  is  your  baby?"  inquired  Mrs.  Be- 
shears  once  more.  She  had  not  forgotten  that 
her  curiosity  in  this  particular  had  not  been  satis- 
fied. 

"A  risin'  of  five  months,"  replied  the  mother. 
"Where's   your    husband?"   Mrs.  Beshears 
asked. 

For  answer,  the  woman  placed  her  hands  to  her 
face,  leaned  back  in  the  chair,  and  said  nothing, 
but  I  could  see  that  she  was  deeply  moved. 

"Dead,  I  reckon?"  persisted  Mrs.  Beshears. 

The  woman,  still  holding  her  hands  before  her 
face,  shook  her  head  with  emphasis,  and  then 


42 


SISTER  JANE. 


began  to  cry  as  uncontrollably  as  a  child  might. 
Mrs.  Beshears  looked  at  sister  Jane,  sister  Jane 
looked  at  Mrs.  Beshears,  then  both  looked  at  me, 
and  I  looked  at  the  baby.  No  word  was  said, 
but  all  of  us  knew  that  the  unfortunate  creature 
who  sat  there  weeping  had  descended  into  the 
valley  where  sin  and  shame  have  their  abiding 
place  —  a  valley  that  is  deep,  but  not  far  to  seek. 

I  looked  at  the  baby  when  sister  Jane  and  Mrs. 
Beshears  looked  at  me,  and  I  was  surprised  to 
find  that  it  was  looking  at  me.  Its  bright  eyes 
were  wide  open,  and  when  they  met  mine,  the 
child  smiled  and  tried  to  hide  its  face  on  my 
shoulder.  Presently  it  reached  its  dimpled  hand 
to  my  cheek,  and  began  to  pinch  it  gently.  It 
was  such  a  pretty  and  cunning  trick  that  I  invol- 
untarily hugged  the  little  one  closer  in  my  arms, 
and  realized  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  how 
sweet  and  thrilling  the  glory  of  motherhood  must 
be  to  a  woman  —  even  to  the  poor  woman  sitting 
near  me,  consumed  as  she  was  with  shame  and 
misery. 

"I  told  you  as  plain  as  I  could  talk,"  she 
sobbed,  "that  I  hain't  no  business  to  be  in  this 
house.  For  mercy's  sake,  gi'  me  my  poor  little 
baby  an'  my  bonnet,  an'  le'  me  go!  " 

Not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  I  rose  from  my 
chair,  and  was  about  to  comply,  when  sister  Jane 
said  sternly :  — 

"What  are  you  doing,  William?  Give  the 
child  to  me." 


WHAT  THE  STORM  LEFT  AT  OUR  DOOR.  43 

"He's  not  asleep,"  I  remarked,  with  as  much 
austerity  of  manner  as  I  could  at  the  moment 
assume. 

"Go  show  your  grandmother  how  to  make  a 
goose-yoke,"  said  sister  Jane,  sarcastically. 

"You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about  babies," 
I  suggested,  with  some  show  of  dignity. 

"I  ought  to,  goodness  knows,"  replied  sister 
Jane,  "for  I  've  had  one  on  my  hands  for  the 
better  part  of  my  life." 

If  I  said  nothing  in  rejoinder,  it  was  not  be- 
cause of  a  lack  of  a  disposition  to  do  so,  but  be- 
cause there  was  nothing  else  to  be  said.  More- 
over, I  felt  that  Providence  had  directed  me 
aright  when  I  rose  to  place  the  child  in  its 
mother's  arms.  If  I  had  said,  "Woman,  stay," 
the  woman  would  have  had  to  go.  But,  by  an 
involuntary  movement,  I  had  said,  "Woman, 
go!  "  Therefore  she  would  stay.  The  perversity 
which  attaches  itself  to  the  feminine  mind,  as  the 
mistletoe  to  the  bough  of  the  crab-apple  —  sprout- 
\r  ing  from  the  under  side,  if  it  can  find  no  more 
convenient  footing  —  was  as  marked  in  my  sister 
J ane  as  in  any  woman ;  but  I  thank  heaven  that 
it  never  hardened  her  heart  nor  soured  her  temper 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned. 


IV. 


THE  BABY  IS  PUT  TO  BED. 

The  situation  was  so  interesting  that  Mrs. 
Be  shears  forgot  that  she  was  obliged  to  go  home. 
As  for  me,  though  it  was  long  past  my  bedtime, 
I  had  no  thought  of  sleep.  Sister  Jane  held  the 
baby  with  a  deftness  that  showed  her  hand  had 
not  lost  its  cunning;  and  the  little  thing  played 
the  same  trick  with  her  that  it  had  with  me.  It 
reached  forth  its  dimpled  hand  and  gently  pinched 
her  neck. 

"Look  at  him,  Sally!  He  's  pinching  my  neck, 
and  he  keeps  on  at  it,"  said  sister  Jane.  "And 
he  's  looking  right  at  me!  " 

She  put  her  face  against  the  baby's  and  rocked 
back  and  forth  in  her  chair,  looking  at  the  bed  of 
coals  on  the  hearth.  The  matter  of  her  thoughts 
I  could  not  even  guess,  but  I  knew  she  was  happy, 
for  her  face  wore  a  smile  that  made  her  look 
younger  by  twenty  years. 

The  mother  of  the  child  was  far  from  comfor- 
table, as  I  could  see.  She  moved  restlessly  about 
in  her  chair,  and  I  felt  rather  than  saw  that  the 
inquisitive  eyes  of  Mrs.  Beshears  were  fixed  upon 
her.    With  her  baby  in  her  arms,  she  could  have 


\ 


THE  BABY  IS  PUT  TO  BED.  45 

hid  her  face,  but  now  all  she  could  do  was  to 
change  her  position  by  moving  about  in  her  chair. 
The  woman  could  not  know,  of  course,  that  there 
was  neither  scorn  nor  condemnation  in  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Beshears,  but  only  a  sort  of  sympathetic 
curiosity.    Suddenly  Mrs.  Beshears  spoke :  — 

"Child,  what  is  your  name?"  The  question 
was  blunt  and  sudden,  but  the  woman  seemed  to 
be  relieved  at  hearing  the  sound  of  a  voice.  Such 
composure  as  she  could  command  she  showed  now. 

"Mandy  Satterlee,"  she  replied. 

"Well,  I  thought  so.  I  used  to  see  you  when 
I  went  to  the  mill.  Jane,  don't  you  mind  me 
telling  you  what  a  good-lookin'  gal  I  saw  running 
wild  in  the  bushes?  " 

But  sister  Jane  evidently  failed  to  hear  this 
appeal  to  her  memory.  When  she  did  speak,  she 
said :  — 

"Sally,  I  wish  you 'd  look  at  Tinkins." 

While  I  had  been  watching  the  woman  and 
Mrs.  Beshears  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye, 
Tommy  Tinkins  had  come  in  from  a  night's  ram- 
ble, a  rare  event  in  his  later  life.  Seeing  sister 
Jane  holding  something  in  her  arms,  he  jumped 
in  her  lap  to  discover  what  it  might  be.  He 
looked  curiously  at  the  baby's  face  —  it  was  still 
awake  —  put  his  nose  against  the  chubby  arm, 
and  then  began  to  show  his  satisfaction  in  a  man- 
ner more  marked  than  I  had  ever  noticed  before. 
He  purred  loudly,  making  a  noise  like  a  small 
flutter-mill,  such  as  the  children  play  with;  he 


46 


SISTER  JANE. 


rubbed  Lis  sides  against  the  baby ;  he  rubbed  his 
chin  on  the  baby's  arm;  and  even  when  he  tried 
to  stand  still  his  forefeet  were  moving  up  and 
down  as  a  soldier  would  mark  time.  Not  content 
with  this,  he  jumped  from  sister  Jane's  lap,  and 
went  to  the  baby's  mother.  He  was  so  well  satis- 
fied with  her  that  he  jumped  in  her  lap  and  went 
through  the  same  performance.  At  the  end  of  it, 
he  stretched  himself  out  on  her  knee,  placed  his 
muzzle  on  his  forepaws,  and  closed  his  eyes  con- 
tentedly. Neither  sister  Jane  nor  myself  had 
ever  seen  Tommy  Tinkins  in  a  stranger's  lap 
before,  and  both  expressed  astonishment. 

"I  reckon  Mandy's  got  catnip  on  her  clothes," 
said  Mrs.  Beshears,  by  way  of  explanation. 

"No,"  replied  Mandy  ,"I  hain't  seen  no  catnip 
—  not  sence  I  was  a  little  bit  of  a  gal." 

"William,"  remarked  sister  Jane  in  the  tone 
she  always  employed  when  her  mind  was  made 
up,  "I  '11  thank  you  to  light  the  fire  in  the  next 
room." 

"If  you're  lightin'  it  for  me,  Jane,  don't  do 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Beshears.  "I'd  stay  if  I  could, 
but  I  'm  ableedge  to  go  home.  I  've  got  to  go  if 
I  have  to  fly." 

"No,  Sally;  there  's  another  room  if  you  make 
up  your  mind  to  stay,"  replied  sister  Jane. 
"Light  the  fire,  William." 

As  I  went  from  the  room,  I  heard  her  talking 
all  sorts  of  foolish  talk  to  the  baby,  as  women  will, 
while  the  baby  was  cooing  a  pretty  reply.  The 


THE  BABY  IS  PUT  TO  BED.  47 

hearth  was  fixed  ready  for  an  emergency.  Pine 
splinters  of  the  required  "fatness"  were  stuck 
here  and  there  between  the  seasoned  hickory  logs, 
and  it  was  no  trouble  at  all  to  make  the  fire. 
The  draft  in  the  chimney  flue,  responsive  to  the 
wind  outside,  was  very  strong,  and  a  warm  and 
cheerful  blaze  was  soon  roaring  on  the  hearth. 

Standing  before  it  a  moment,  I  noticed  that  the 
fury  of  the  tempest  outside  had  abated  somewhat, 
though  the  wind  was  still  blowing  stiffly.  I  heard, 
too,  a  suspicious  tinkling  sound  on  the  panes  of 
the  window  that  had  no  blinds.  Drawing  aside 
the  curtain,  I  saw  that  the  ground  was  covered 
with  snow,  and  that  it  was  still  snowing  briskly. 
This  was  so  rare  a  spectacle  in  our  part  of  the 
country  that  not  many  children  in  the  village 
under  ten  years  of  age  had  seen  it,  and  I  caught 
myself  wondering  what  impression  it  would  make 
on  them.  Then  I  heard  the  clock  striking  twelve, 
and,  before  the  sound  had  died  away,  there  came 
a  knocking  at  the  outer  door.  Wondering  what 
this  might  mean,  I  hastened  to  respond,  and  found 
on  the  outside  a  tall  negro  man. 

"Who  are  you,  and  what  under  the  canopy  of 
heaven  do  you  want  at  this  time  of  night?"  I 
asked  with  some  show  of  irritation. 

U'T ain't  nobody  but  Mose,  suh.  I  fotch  de 
buggy  atter  Miss  Sally,  ef  she  's  here,  en  ef  she 
ain't  here,  de  Lord  knows  whar  she  is,  kaze  she 
ain't  at  home,  ner  no  whar  s  nigh  dar." 

Of  course  I  knew  Moses.    Mrs.  Beshears  had 


48 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


selected  liim  to  be  tlie  foreman  on  her  place,  be- 
cause lie  was  a  little  bit  less  lazy  than  the  rest  of 
the  negroes.  So  I  made  Moses  come  in,  and  car- 
ried him  to  my  own  room,  where  a  fire  was  still 
burning.  He  wiped  his  feet  over  and  over  again, 
shook  the  snow  from  his  clothes,  and  struck  his 
hat  against  the  wall  several  times  before  he  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  to  come  in  and  warm  himself 
while  Mrs.  Beshears  was  getting  ready  to  go. 
There  was  no  light  in  the  room  except  the  dim 
one  that  came  from  the  red  glow  of  the  hearth, 
and  as  Moses  stood  in  front  of  it,  changing  his 
hat  from  one  hand  to  the  other  as  he  warmed 
each  by  turns,  his  stalwart  figure  cast  an  imposing 
silhouette  on  the  wall  and  ceiling. 

"I'm  name  Moses,"  he  said,  as  if  talking  to 
himself,  "en  ef  dish  yer  fire  ain't  de  prommus 
lan',  I  ain't  never  seed  no  prommus  lan'." 

"Is  the  weather  very  cold?"  I  asked,  as  I  fas- 
tened the  door. 

"Hit  gittin'  wuss  en  wuss,  suh,"  he  replied.- 
"De  fros'  done  got  in  de  sap  er  de  trees,  suh,  en 
ez  I  wuz  driving'  long  thoo  de  grove  out  yan',  I 
hear  one  un  um  pop.  Yes,  suh,  I  hear  de  tree 
pop,  en  she  pop  so  loud,  't  wuz  much  ez  I  could 
do  ter  hoi'  dat  ole  boss  out  dar.  Little  mo'  en 
he 'd  a  run'ded  away  —  dat  ole  boss  would." 

I  left  Moses  enjoying  the  warmth  of  the  fire, 
and  went  to  inform  Mrs.  Beshears  that  she  had 
been  sent  for.  I  walked  along  the  hallway, 
opened  the  door,  and  was  about  to  sj^eak  to  her 


THE  BABY  IS  PUT  TO  BED. 


49 


when  I  heard  sister  Jane's  "sh-sh-h!"  and  saw 
her  raise  her  hand  in  warning.  In  some  alarm, 
I  enquired  in  a  whisper  what  the  trouble  was. 
A  gesture  of  her  hand  told  me  that  the  baby  was 
asleep,  and  I  was  glad  to  find  that  it  was  nothing 
worse,  for  the  events  of  the  night  had  prepared 
me  to  fear  that  some  new  complications  had  taken 
shape  during  my  absence  from  the  room. 

Breathing  a  sigh  of  relief,  I  told  Mrs.  Beshears, 
in  a  tone  not  calculated  to  disturb  the  baby,  that 
Moses  had  come  for  her.  She  tiptoed  to  sister 
Jane's  chair,  peeped  at  the  sleeping  baby  and  said 
good-night.  Then  she  tiptoed  to  Mandy  Satterlee 
and  shook  hands  with  her.  This  done,  a  new 
trouble  arose.  How  was  she  to  arouse  the  little 
negro  boy,  who  was  one  of  the  seven  sleepers? 
At  my  suggestion,  made  in  pantomime,  she  took 
him  by  one  arm,  while  I  seized  him  by  the  other. 
In  this  way,  we  lifted  him  bodily  from  the  room 
into  the  hallway,  shut  the  door,  and  dragged  him 
along  the  best  we  could  in  the  dark  to  my  room, 
where,  after  a  shake  or  two  from  Mrs.  Beshears, 
and  a  word  from  Mose,  the  boy  was  able  to  stand 
on  his  feet  without  assistance. 

"I  reckon  we  can  talk  like  folks  out  here," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Beshears.  "You  hear  me  say  it, 
William,  if  Jane  Wornum  ain't  gone  daft  over 
that  young  'un,  I 'd  like  to  know  the  reason. 
Why,  the  minnit  it  shet  its  eyeleds,  nobody  could 
say  a  word.  If  you  spoke  to  Jane  she'd  shake 
her  head  and  p'int  to  the  baby.    At  her  time  of 


50 


SISTER  JANE. 


life,  too!  I  declare,  it  beats  all.  Is  that  you, 
Moses?  Well,  why  n't  you  wait  till  mornin'  to 
come  after  me?" 

"Kaze,  Mistiss,  I  knowed  mighty  well  you'd 
wanter  come  fo'  mornin',"  replied  Moses,  ignor- 
ing the  sarcasm. 

"Well,  I 'd  'a'  waited  till  after  sun-up,  anyway, 
if  I 'd  'a'  been  you,"  remarked  Mrs.  Beshears. 
"Did  you  fetch  the  wheel -barrer  or  the  ox-cart?" 

"I  fotch  ol'  Sam  en  de  buggy,  ma'am,"  an- 
swered Moses. 

"  Well,  good  Lord !  are  you  going  to  walk  and 
lead  old  Sam,  or  shall  I  have  to  walk  and  lead 
him?    He  can't  haul  us  all." 

"He  mighty  gaily  ter-night,  ma'am.  Much 
ez  I  kin  do  ter  hoi'  him  whence  we  'uz  comin' 
'long  des  now.  Better  wrop  yo'se'f  up  good, 
Mistiss,  kaze  dish  yer  wedder  is  de  kin'  what  '11 
creep  under  de  kiver,  I  don't  keer  how  much  you 
may  pile  on." 

But  Mrs.  Beshears  was  fortified  in  this  respect. 
When  she  was  ready  to  go  she  bade  me  good- 
night, Moses  bowed,  as  I  held  the  door  open,  and 
in  a  moment  I  heard  the  horse's  feet  crunching 
through  the  snow,  which  had  already  formed  an 
outer  crust.  Then  I  went  back  to  sister  Jane's 
room  to  see  if  I  could  be  of  any  service  before 
going  to  bed.  Mandy  Satterlee  was  still  holding 
the  cat  in  her  lap,  gazing  into  the  depths  of  the 
fireplace.  The  color  had  returned  to  her  face, 
and  though  her  hair  was  tossed  about,  its  black 


THE  BABY  IS  PUT  TO  BED. 


51 


masses  made  a  fitting  frame  for  her  features ;  and 
I  saw  at  a  glance  that  among  her  other  misfor- 
tunes she  had  the  dower  of  beauty.  Sister  Jane 
was  still  holding  the  baby,  humming  a  low  tune. 
Her  warning  hand  told  me  that  I  had  forgotten 
to  steal  into  the  room  on  my  tiptoes,  perceiving 
which,  the  baby's  mother  intervened. 

"You  may  make  all  the  fuss  you  want  to, 
now,"  she  said.  "He 'd  wake  ef  you  drapped  'im 
on  the  floor,  maybe,  but  I  don't  know  what  else 
would  wake  'im.  He  hain't  no  trouble  in  the 
wide  world."  She  made  this  remark  with  a  touch 
of  pride  that  was  unmistakable.  "I  '11  take  'im, 
now,"  she  went  on.  "Oh,  the  Lord  knows  I 
don't  want  to  worry  you-all.  I  know  I  ought  n't 
to  be  settin'  here.    I  ain't  nothin'  ner  nobody." 

"William,"  said  sister  Jane,  "turn  down  the 
bed -cover  in  the  next  room,  and  warm  the  pil- 
lows." 

"Le'  me  do  it!  Oh,  le'  me  do  somethin',  so 
I  won't  run  ravin'  crazy.  I  don't  know  how  to 
set  here  holdin'  my  han's  an'  a-doin'  of  no  good," 
said  the  baby's  mother. 

"Show  her  the  way,  William."  Sister  Jane's 
tone  was  not  less  imperative  because  her  voice 
was  pitched  in  a  lower  key.  So  I  made  haste  to 
show  Mandy  Satterlee  where  the  room  was,  and 
while  she  turned  down  the  cover  and  smoothed 
out  the  snow-white  sheets  anew,  I  took  occasion 
to  renew  the  fire,  so  that  the  room  would  remain 
comfortably  warm  for  the  rest  of  the  night.  Hav- 


52 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


ing  finished  this  I  stood  before  the  fire,  expecting 
to  see  the  yonng  woman  fetch  the  pillow  to  be 
warmed.  After  watching  the  fire  a  moment,  and 
hearing  no  sound,  I  turned  and  saw  Mandy  lean- 
ing on  the  foot-board  of  the  bed,  which  was  a 
high  one,  silently  weeping.  So  I  took  the  pillow, 
placed  one  end  on  the  floor  and  leaned  it  against 
a  chair.  Presently  sister  Jane  came  in  bringing 
the  baby. 

"If  the  pillow's  warm,  William,  put  it  back 
on  the  bed." 

I  made  sure  of  the  warmth,  for  I  knew  that 
sister  Jane  would  test  it  by  laying  her  cheek 
against  it,  and  placed  it  on  the  bed.  She  gave 
it  a  light  blow  with  her  free  hand,  laid  the  baby 
down,  and  drew  the  cover  over  it  with  the  great- 
est care.    Then  she  turned  to  the  mother. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mandy?"  she  asked  in 
her  practical  way. 

"Nothin'  in  the  wide  .world,"  replied  Mandy, 
eagerly,  though  the  tears  were  streaming  down 
her  cheeks.  "Pleas 'm  don't  le'  me  worry  you. 
I  'm  happier  right  now  than  I  've  been  sence  — 
sence  I  don't  know  when.  It  ain't  when  I  cry 
that  I 'm  in  trouble;  it 's  when  I  can't  cry." 

"Then  come  and  sit  by  me,"  said  sister  Jane, 
"and  cry  to  your  heart's  content.  It'll  do  you 
a  world  of  good.  See  to  the  doors  and  the  fires, 
William." 

Taking  this  as  a  gentle  hint,  I  went  out,  and 
inspected  all  the  outer  doors,  trying  the  locks,  to 


THE  BABY  IS  PUT  TO  BED. 


53 


make  sure  that  they  were  fastened.  This  was  a 
part  of  the  nightly  routine,  but  it  was  a  useless 
task  to  be  set  for  me,  for  sister  Jane  was  sure  to 
slip  around  to  each  door  after  I  had  gone  to  bed, 
to  satisfy  herself  that  it  was  secure. 

What  these  two  women  said  to  each  other  in 
that  hour  —  the  one  strong  and  self-reliant,  but 
charitable,  the  other  weak  and  erring,  but  peni- 
tent in  heart  and  mind  —  I  never  knew ;  I  never 
wanted  to  know.  For  revelation  would  have 
made  commonplace  a  matter  over  which  secrecy 
had  thrown  a  sacred  veil.  There  are  mysteries 
which  divination  exalt,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 
The  cry  of  a  penitent  is  heard  with  more  joy  in 
heaven  than  the  prayer  of  a  saint;  it  may  be 
misunderstood  here,  but  it  is  rightly  heard  there 
through  all  the  riot  and  uproar  of  the  spinning 
worlds. 

After  I  had  attended  to  everything,  as  usual, 
I  opened  the  door  of  the  room  to  bid  sister  Jane 
good-night,  as  had  been  my  habit  since  childhood. 
But  what  I  saw  made  me  pause  on  the  threshold. 
Sister  Jane  sat  in  a  low  chair  with  her  arms 
around  Mandy  Satterlee,  who  was  kneeling  on  the 
floor  at  her  side.  Mandy 's  hair  fell  in  black  coils 
to  the  floor;  neither  one  heard  or  saw  me.  There 
was  a  murmur  of  conversation,  but  I  did  not  pause 
to  hear.  Closing  the  door  gently,  I  went  to  my 
room,  and  was  soon  sound  asleep. 


y. 


SISTER  JANE  TAKES  BOARDERS. 

The  next  morning  the  negro  boy  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  making  the  fires  failed  to  put  in  an 
appearance.  And  no  wonder.  The  snow  was 
piled  to  such  a  height  in  the  little  porch,  having 
been  blown  into  a  drift  by  the  wind,  that  it 
reached  nearly  to  the  door-knob.  But  a  beauti- 
ful sight  met  my  eyes  when  I  looked  out.  One 
could  almost  be  tempted  to  believe  that  a  miracle 
had  been  performed  in  the  night.  Everywhere 
the  snow  lay  thick  and  white,  and  over  the  trunks 
and  branches  of  the  trees  a  thin  mantle  of  ice  had 
been  woven.  An  arbor- vitae  tree  standing  in  the 
garden  was  so  heavily-laden  with  this  unusual  gift 
of  winter  that  its  branches  gave  forth  a  queer 
creaking  sound  when  they  swayed  in  the  light 
breeze;  and  the  honeysuckle  vine  made  a  rare 
show  in  its  garment  of  mingled  sleet  and  snow  — 
winter's  patchwork. 

But  I  had  no  time  to  enjoy  the  scene.  I  made 
haste  to  go  to  the  cook-room,  intending  to  start 
the  fire,  and,  in  this  way,  help  sister  Jane  as 
much  as  possible.  But  when  I  got  there  a  fire 
was  roaring  on  the  hearth,  and  Mandy  Satterlee 
was  sitting  before  it.    She  rose  as  I  entered. 


SISTER  JANE  TAKES  BOARDERS. 


55 


"I 'm  mighty  glad  you  're  up,"  she  said,  with  a 
movement  of  her  lips  that  was  almost  a  smile. 
"I  slipped  out  of  bed  an'  come  out  here  to  see  ef 
I  couldn't  he'p  aroun'  a  little.  I  started  the  fire 
an'  then  had  to  set  down  an'  wait  for  somebody. 
I  didn't  want  to  wake  her  up,  'cause  I  know  in 
reason  she  must  be  teetotally  fagged  out.  Ef  you 
know  how  to  give  out  things,"  she  went  on,  "I  '11 
whirl  in  here  an'  git  breakfast  fer  you-all  in  three 
shakes  of  a  sheep 's-tail." 

I  found  the  cupboard  key,  and  showed  Mandy 
where  the  meat,  the  meal,  and  the  flour  were  kept, 
but  further  I  could  not  go.  How  much  or  how 
little  to  give  out  for  making  a  meal  and  prevent- 
ing all  waste,  was  a  problem  I  had  not  mastered. 
Instead  of  laughing  at  my  total  ignorance  Mandy 
shoved  me  gently  aside  and  took  charge  of  mat- 
ters. 

Then  I  made  a  fire  in  my  own  room,  after  many 
efforts,  and  when  I  went  back,  sister  Jane  was  up 
and  out  and  engaged  in  a  friendly  quarrel  with 
Mandy  Satterlee. 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean  by  not 
waking  me?  "  sister  Jane  was  saying.  "Where 's 
William?  William,  why  didn't  you  wake  me 
and  let  this  poor  thing  rest?  " 

"For  the  best  reason  in  the  world,"  I  answered. 
"I  was  sound  asleep  myself,  and  when  I  did 
wake,  I  found  a  fire  roaring  in  the  chimney  here." 

"Well,  this  beats  all,"  remarked  sister  Jane. 
"I'm  no  chicken,  and  this  is  the  first  time  I've 


56 


SISTEB  JANE. 


ever  overslept  myself  since  I  've  been  a  woman 
grown." 

"That 's  because  you 've  never  bad  to  retcb  out 
an'  pick  up  a  poor  stray  creetur  before,"  said 
Mandy  Satterlee. 

"'T ain't  that,"  explained  sister  Jane.  "I've 
been  up  just  as  late,  and  I 've  been  through  just 
as  much  and  more,  too,  for  that  matter;  but 
sun-up  never  caught  me  in  bed  before,  not  since 
I  was  a  slip  of  a  gal." 

"Well,  once  in  a  way  won't  hurt,"  remarked 
Mandy.  "By  the  time  you  turn  'roun'  once  or 
twice  breakfus  '11  be  ready." 

Sister  Jane  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  made  an 
exclamation,  which,  plainly  enough,  was  not  the 
result  of  surprise  alone.  For,  though  particular 
about  many  things,  she  was  most  particular  about 
the  preparation  of  her  food.  She  would  never 
tolerate  a  negro  cook.  Cleanliness  was  a  part  of 
her  religious  creed,  and  she  practiced  it  unceas- 
ingly and  (I  sometimes  thought,  especially  on 
scouring  days)  unsparingly.  I  am  sure  she  winced 
inwardly  when  Mandy  Satterlee  said  that  break- 
fast was  nearly  ready. 

"I  reckon  I  done  wrong,"  said  Mandy;  "I'm 
good  at  that.  But  I  jest  had  to  do  somethin'. 
Ef  you  hain't  never  had  the  feelin'  I  hope  you 
never  will.  When  I  git  that  a-way,  I 'm  jest 
ableeged  to  do  somethin'.  But  ever'body  says  I  rm 
a  good  cook.  I  begun  it  when  I  wuz  a  little  gal, 
an'  I 've  been  a-doin'  of  it  off  an'  on  ev'ry  sence. 


SISTER  JANE  TAKES  BOARDERS.  57 


I  do  hope  you  '11  jest  taste  of  the  vittles  any- 
how." 

"Well,  my  appetite  ain't  so  mighty  good  this 
morning,  and  I  don't  care  what  I  eat,"  replied 
sister  Jane,  with  characteristic  bluntness.  Then 
she  went  into  the  room  where  the  baby  was  still 
asleep.  When  she  came  out,  her  face  wore  a 
pleasanter  expression.  "He 's  sleeping  like  a 
log,"  she  said. 

By  that  time  breakfast  was  ready  and  the  table 
set.  It  was  surprising  with  what  deftness  Mandy 
handled  the  crockery -ware,  and  how  apt  she  was 
in  discovering  where  everything  was  kept.  Pres- 
ently she  said,  with  a  somewhat  embarrassed  air, 
"Well,  I  reckon  ever 'thing 's  ready.  Set  down 
an'  eat  it  while  it 's  warm." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  sister 
Jane,  seeing  that  plates  had  been  laid  for  two 
only.    "Fix  a  place  for  yourself." 

"Oh,  no 'm!  I  '11  hand  the  things  around.  I 
never  eat  with  any  heart  right  after  I  've  been 
cookin'.    It  '11  rest  me  to  help  you." 

Sister  Jane  placed  a  chair  and  plate  for  Mandy 
and  insisted  that  she  should  sit  down  with  us. 
But  neither  persuasion  nor  insistence  had  any 
effect  on  her.  She  only  shook  her  head,  and, 
finally,  closed  sister  Jane's  mouth  by  placing  a 
plate  of  smoking  waffles  under  her  nose. 

Now,  if  there  was  anything  my  sister  was  fond 
of  it  was  hot  waffles.  She  often  tried  to  make 
them  and  as  often  failed,  and  finally  had  placed 


SISTER  JANE. 


the  irons  out  of  sight  behind  the  pots,  and  kettles, 
and  ovens.  A  pleased  smile  fluttered  around  her 
mouth,  as  she  got  a  whiff:  of  her  favorite  dish. 

"Why,  Mandy,  where  in  the  world  did  you 
find  the  waffle-irons?"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  know  'd  in  reason  that  you  ought  to  have 
a  pair,"  replied  Mandy,  "an'  I  jest  hunted  till  I 
found  'em." 

"I  hope  you  cleaned  them,"  said  sister  Jane. 

"The  waffles '11  tell  you  more  about  that  than 
I  can,"  was  all  Mandy  would  say. 

The  breakfast  was  very  fine,  and  I  enjoyed  it 
as  much  as  sister  Jane  did.  The  waffles  were 
delicious,  the  coffee  retained  the  fresh  aroma  of 
the  roasted  berry,  the  ham  was  broiled  to  a  turn, 
and,  in  fact,  everything  showed  the  hand  of  an 
adept.  In  reply  to  a  question,  Mandy  said  her 
mother  had  taught  her  how  to  cook,  and  then  we 
remembered  that  the  daughter  of  a  Virginia  gen- 
tleman, who  had  emigrated  to  this  region  to  better 
his  condition,  had  outraged  her  parents  and 
shocked  her  friends  by  eloping  with  Duncan 
Satterlee.  Here,  then,  were  my  sister  Jane  and 
myself  actually  enjoying  the  remote  results  of  a 
social  dislocation  (if  I  may  so  term  it)  which  had 
caused  no  little  stir  when  it  happened,  and  which 
was  still  talked  of  when  old  people  desired  to 
point  a  moral  for  the  benefit  of  their  daughters. 
It  was  so  curious  that  I  determined  to  make  the 
matter  a  subject  for  an  essay,  written  after  the 
manner  and  in  the  style  of  those  that  still  delight 


SISTER  JANE  TAKES  BO  ABB  EES.  59 


us  in  Mr.  Addison's  little  paper,  "The  Spec- 
tator." 

I  have  dwelt  on  these  trifles  purposely.  They 
were  a  part  of  the  order  of  events,  and  who  shall 
say  whether  they  were  not  as  important  in  their 
results  as  any  ?  Who  shall  decide  whether  Mandy 
Satterlee's  own  personality,  (which  was  far  from 
displeasing),  or  that  of  her  baby,  or  her  art  of 
cookery,  was  most  influential  in  bringing  my  sister 
to  decide  that  the  unfortunate  young  woman 
should  thereafter  make  her  home  with  us? 
'T  would  be  a  rough  and  an  unsatisfactory  way 
of  disposing  of  an  important  matter  to  say  that 
a  mere  trifle  caused  my  sister  Jane  to  make  up 
her  mind  to  fly  in  the  face  of  public  opinion ;  but 
trifles  that  seem  to  be  light  as  air  are  frequently 
heavy  enough  to  turn  the  scale. 

At  any  rate,  sister  Jane  decided  that  Mandy 
Satterlee  should  remain  with  us.  I  was  consulted 
about  it  as  a  matter  of  form,  and  (that  my  indi- 
viduality might  assert  itself)  I  offered  some  argu- 
ments against  the  proposition  and  pressed  them 
with  a  show  of  heat  that  I  was  far  from  feeling. 
I  foresaw  that  whatever  objection  I  might  put 
forward  would  cause  sister  Jane  to  make  up  her 
mind  more  firmly,  for  she  was  never  sure  she  was 
right  until  opposition  confirmed  her  intuitions. 
We  talked  the  matter  over  for  a  good  quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  I  own  that  I  never  heard  my  sister 
argue  as  well  as  she  did  when  she  was  pleading 
the  cause  of  this  poor  outcast.    For  my  part,  I 


60 


SJSTER  JANE. 


was  glad  to  see  her  make  so  trenchant  a  display 
of  the  true  Christian  spirit  toward  one  of  her 
own  sex.  The  quality  of  charity  is  both  rare 
and  noble;  it  is  felt  oftener  than  it  is  practiced. 
Therefore  I  was  glad  that  our  poor  house  had 
been  illuminated,  as  it  were,  by  so  large  a  mea- 
sure of  that  virtue. 

The  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that,  what  with 
the  sympathy  and  tenderness  that  were  a  part  of 
her  nature,  the  rosy  and  cunning  baby,  the  waffles 
and  the  coffee,  sister  Jane  decided  to  give  Mandy 
Satterlee  a  home  with  us  until  she  could  find  a 
better.  She  was  sitting  with  her  baby  in  her  lap, 
fondling  and  cooing  over  it,  when  sister  Jane  told 
her.  Without  a  word  she  placed  the  youngster 
on  the  floor  (where  it  sprawled,  and  kicked,  and 
crowed),  whipped  out  of  the  room,  and,  cold  as  it 
was,  went  into  the  garden  and  stood  near  a  peach- 
tree,  breaking  off  a  twig  now  and  then,  and  send- 
ing its  icy  covering  tinkling  along  the  frozen  crust 
of  the  snow.  She  stood  there  until  sister  Jane 
called  her,  and  then  she  came  slowly  in  with 
downcast  eyes. 

"Don't  stand  out  there  in  the  snow,  Mandy. 
You  '11  catch  your  death  of  cold." 

"There  hain't  no  danger  of  that,"  replied 
Mandy.  "I 'm  used  to  the  weather,  an'  ef  I 
wa'n't,  'twould  be  all  the  same.  Nobody  in  the 
world  can  ketch  cold  when  the'r  heart  's  as  warm 
as  mine  is  right  now." 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  sister  Jane  was 


SISTER  JANE   TAKES  BOARDERS.  61 


chattering  away  at  the  baby,  but  I  think  we  both 
heard  what  Mandy  said.  For,  after  a  while,  sister 
Jane  touched  the  young  mother  on  the  shoulder 
and  said :  — 

"You  've  no  right  to  fret  and  worry  as  long  as 
you 've  got  that  child  to  look  after." 

"That's  so,"  Mandy  assented,  and  then  she 
went  about  cleaning  up  the  house  for  the  day, 
displaying  a  dexterity  in  this  business  that  was 
astonishing. 

Naturally,  in  a  community  as  small  as  ours, 
the  episode  that  brought  Mandy  Satterlee  to  our 
door  was  soon  bruited  about,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
the  gossips  rolled  it  as  a  sweet  morsel  under  their 
tongues.  I  had  no  objections  to  this,  though  it 
is  possible  that  sister  Jane  was  somewhat  irritated 
at  the  thought  that  her  action  in  the  matter  would 
be  misconstrued  and  bandied  about  from  gossip 
to  gossip. 

The  first  of  our  neighbors  to  call  was  Mrs. 
Roby.  She  had  not  visited  us  for  months  before, 
but  now  she  came,  helter-skelter  (as  you  may  say), 
to  investigate  and  satisfy  her  mind.  She  was 
sweet  as  butter  sauce.  It  was,  "Why,  Jane!  how 
well  you  're  looking  —  I  reely  believe  you  are 
getting  younger  —  but  look  at  me  how  faded  and 
wrinkled  I  am  —  I  declare  I  'm  getting  old  so  fast 
I  don't  know  what  kind  of  clothes  to  put  on  — 
and  how  is  that  clever  brother  of  yours?  Why, 
here  he  is  now  —  how  are  you,  William?  It  is 
a  shame  you  should  keep  yourself  shut  up  so. 


62 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


Why  don't  you  get  married?  "  —  and  so  on  in  an 
endless  stream  of  questions  to  which  no  answers 
were  expected,  and  comments  that  were  not  in- 
tended to  attract  any  attention.  Mrs.  Roby  kept 
it  up  for  some  time,  and  then,  finally,  settled 
down  to  the  main  business  to  which  we  owed  the 
honor  of  her  visit. 

"Jane  —  I  reckon  you  won't  mind  me  talking 
about  it  before  William,  because  William  seems 
just  like  one  of  my  own  family,  and  what  I 
wouldn't  say  before  him  I  wouldn't  say  before 
my  own  brother.  I  '11  tell  anybody  that,  I  don't 
care  who  —  Jane,  what's  this  great  rigmarole  I 
hear  about  old  Sal  Beshears  a-going  out  of  your 
door  yonder  and  finding  a  gal  and  a  baby  and 
a-bringing  of  'em  in?  I  don't  see  how  under  the 
canopy  o'  heaven  old  Sal  Beshears  could  'a'  drug 
any  living  human  being,  or  a  dead  one  either  for 
that  matter,  out  of  the  blinding  snow  —  I  was  at 
class-meeting  that  night  —  and  I  know  mighty  well 
that  if  old  Sal  Beshears  could  'a'  drug  herself  in 
after  she  once  got  out  'twould  'a'  been  as  much. 
And  yet  I  hear  'em  say,  up  and  down,  that  old 
Sal  done  all  this  by  her  own  self." 

"Well,  Maria,"  remarked  sister  Jane,  when 
Mrs.  Eoby  paused  to  take  breath,  "what  if  she 
did?    What  is  wrong  about  it? " 

"Nothing,  Jane  —  nothing  in  the  world.  It 
looked  to  me  like  it  was  past  all  reason  that  a 
crippled  old  soul  like  Sal  Beshears  could  'a'  done 
what  they  say  she  done." 


SISTER  JANE  TAKES  BOARDERS. 


63 


"Sometimes  when  folks  get  excited  they  can  do 
lots  more  than  they  could  if  they  were  calm," 
suggested  sister  Jane,  pleasantly,  though  my  prac- 
ticed eye  could  see  that  she  was  boiling  inwardly 
—  if  I  may  venture  to  employ  the  metaphor. 

"That 's  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Roby,  placidly  shift- 
ing her  ground;  "that's  certainly  so,  because  I 
recollect  jest  as  well  as  if  it  happened  yesterday 
that  one  time  when  I  was  in  my  chicken-house 
nailing  on  a  plank,  a  settin'  hen  flew  in  my  face, 
and  it  was  all  done  so  sudden  that  it  flung  me  off 
my  balance,  and  I  struck  at  her  with  the  hammer 
and  missed  her,  and  splintered  a  scantlin'  as  big 
as  my  leg  —  please  excuse  me,  William,  because 
I  always  look  on  you  as  one  of  my  own  family. 
I  couldn't  'a'  done  it  if  I  hadn't  'a'  been  excited 
to  save  my  life." 

"Well,  the  fact  is  that  Sally  Beshears  didn't 
drag  the  woman  in  any  more  than  you  did,"  said 
sister  Jane,  as  she  basted  the  lining  in  a  frock- 
coat. 

"Why,  you  don't  tell  me!  Well,  that  outdoes 
me!  And  it 's  the  talk  of  the  town.  Everybody 
says  that  old  Sally  Beshears  took  and  drug  the 
woman  in.  And  that  ain't  all  —  no,  ma'am!  If 
you  '11  believe  me,  that  ain't  all  by  a  long  sight. 
They  say  that  the  woman  and  her  baby  are  here 
right  now.  Sister  Pulliam  says  that  they  are  jest 
as  much  at  home  here  as  if  they  'd  'a'  been  born 
and  brought  up  here.  I  says  to  her,  says  I, 
6  Sister  Pulliam,  we  both  belong  to  the  same 


64 


SISTER  JANE. 


church,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  you 
ought  not  to  talk  that  a-way  unless  you  know 'd 
that  what  you  say  is  so,  because,'  says  I,  '  I've 
been  knowing  Jane  Wornum  a  mighty  long  time, 
and  I  know  mighty  well  that  she 's  not  the 
woman,'  says  I,  4  to  take  no  risks  unless  she  's  got 
some  good  reason,'  says  I." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  told  'em  that,  Maria," 
exclaimed  sister  Jane  in  a  tone  suspiciously  sweet. 
"If  you  '11  look  over  on  the  sofa  there,  you  '11  see 
the  baby,  and  its  mammy  ain't  so  far  off  but 
she 'd  come  running  in  if  she  heard  it  holler." 

Mrs.  Eoby  sat  as  if  she  had  been  petrified. 
Her  tongue  for  some  moments  resigned  its  office. 
She  could  only  rub  her  chin  and  wag  her  head. 
After  a  while  she  managed  to  say :  — 

"Well,  I  told  'em  you  had  some  good  reason." 

"The  best  in  the  world,  Maria,"  said  sister 
Jane.  "If  you  ain't  certain  what  it  is,  you'll 
find  it  in  the  Bible,  and  if  you  haven't  got  a 
Bible,  ask  your  preacher.  I  '11  be  bound  he  can 
tell  you  if  he  knows  his  business." 

"  Why,  you  know  I ' ve  got  a  Bible,  Jane.  It 
sets  right  on  the  centre -table  in  my  parlor  in  full 
view.  You 've  not  been  to  my  house  much,  but 
you 've  been  often  enough  to  see  the  Bible  in  my 
parlor." 

"Put  it  in  your  living  room,  then,  for  the 
Lord's  sake,  where  you  can  read  it  every  chance 
you  get."  The  asperity  of  sister  Jane's  tone  was 
ill-concealed  by  the  genial   smile   that  played 


STSTER  JANE  TAKES  BOARDERS.  65 


around  her  mouth.  A  woman  never  smiles  more 
sweetly  or  sincerely  than  when  she  feels  or  knows 
she  is  saying  things  that  are  calculated  to  make 
a  friendly  enemy  wince. 

"I  declare,  Jane!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Koby,  "if 
anybody  that  didn't  know  you  was  to  hear  you 
talking,  they 'd  think  you  were  mean  and  frac- 
tious. But  we  know  her  too  well  for  that,  don't 
we,  William?" 

I  assented  to  this  very  heartily,  for  though 
Mrs.  Eoby  had  made  the  remark  sarcastically,  I 
knew  it  to  be  true  that  my  sister  had  the  tenderest 
heart  in  the  world.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Koby  broke 
forth  again :  — 

"  Oh,  yes !  There 's  another  thing  I  like  to 
'a'  forgot.  Sister  Cosby  says  that  Sister  Flewellen 
told  her  day  before  yesterday  that  the  reason  you 
was  keeping  the  gal  was  because  you  wanted  to 
take  in  boarders.    But  I  told  Sister  Cosby" — 

Before  Mrs.  Roby  could  ramble  off  into  another 
of  her  rigmaroles,  sister  Jane  brought  her  hand 
down  on  the  press-board  with  a  resounding 
thwack. 

"Well,  I  thank  Sue  Flewellen  for  that,"  she 
cried.  "  I  had  n't  thought  of  it  before,  but  it 's  the 
very  thing.  I  never  did  think  Sue  was  right  bright, 
but  I  '11  have  to  change  my  mind.  William, 
think  it  over.  I  don't  know  how  many  times  the 
clerks  in  Harvey's  and  WardwelPs  and  Slade's 
stores  have  asked  me  why  I  didn't  take  a  few 
boarders,  and  every  time  I 've  told  'em  it  was 


06 


SISTER  JANE. 


because  I  had  to  do  my  own  cooking  —  and  now 
the  Lord  has  sent  me  the  best  cook  in  the  United 
States,  if  I  do  say  it  myself." 

The  point  of  this  remark  lay  in  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Eoby  herself  kept  boarders,  and  was,  at 
that  moment  "entertaining"  (as  she  was  pleased 
to  call  it)  the  young  gentlemen  who  were  clerking 
in  the  stores  sister  Jane  had  named.  It  was  most 
interesting  to  a  student  of  human  nature  to  watch 
the  expression  of  Mrs.  Eoby's  face  as  sister  Jane 
spoke.  Dismay,  disgust,  chagrin,  doubt,  and 
amazement  fluttered  over  her  countenance  —  a 
tangled  medley  of  emotions.  For  once  in  her  life 
she  knew  not  what  to  say,  and  when  she  did 
speak,  her  voice  was  pitched  low. 

"All  I  can  say,"  she  remarked,  as  she  rose  to 
go,  "is  that  I  hope  you'll  have  better  luck  and 
less  trouble  with  your  boarders  than  I 've  ever 
had  with  mine.  Well,  I  must  go;  I  just  dropped 
in  to  say  howdy  and  let  you  know  that  I  hadn't 
forgot  you." 

"No  need  to  tear  yourself  away,"  said  sister 
Jane,  hospitably.  "Well,  good-by,  if  you  will 
go.  When  you  see  Sue  Flewellen,  tell  her  I 'm 
mighty  much  obliged  to  her  for  her  hint.  It 's 
a  good  one." 

Poor  Mrs.  Eoby  was  neither  as  voluble  nor  as 
gay  when  she  went  out  as  when  she  came  in,  and 
I  could  but  remark,  with  a  vague  feeling  of 
regret,  that,  in  proportion  as  Mrs.  Eoby's  spirits 
had  fallen,  my  sister's  had  risen. 


SISTER  JANE  TAKES  BOARDERS.  67 

"I  think  Maria  put  her  foot  in  it  this  time," 
said  sister  Jane,  laughing  heartily,  as  she  returned 
from  the  door.  "A  nice  woman  she  is  to  go 
around  telling  folks  about  the  slurring  remarks 
that  other  people  have  made  about  them,  and  all 
the  time  a-prying  around  and  nosing  about  to  see 
what  she  can  find  out." 

It  turned  out  that  sister  Jane  was  more  than 
half  serious  when  she  said  she  intended  to  take 
day  boarders.  The  idea  dropped  by  Mrs.  Roby 
grew  day  by  day,  until,  on  the  advice  of  Mandy 
Satterlee,  it  developed  into  a  fact.  It  was  not 
wholly  agreeable  to  me  at  first  thought;  but,  on 
reflecting  that  it  would  get  my  sister  out  of  the 
habit  of  tailoring,  which  seemed  to  grow  on  her 
year  by  year,  and  bring  us  both  in  contact  with 
fairly  pleasant  people,  I  decided  to  offer  no  objec- 
tions whatever.  Of  this  I  was  glad  when  expe- 
rience had  convinced  me  that  a  certain  degree  of 
amusement,  as  well  as  instruction,  is  to  be  derived 
from  listening  to  the  small  talk  and  studying  the 
characters  of  a  parcel  of  lively  young  men  who 
regard  life  as  a  less  serious  problem  than  their 
elders  are  wont  to  do. 


VI. 


MISS  MARY  BULLARD. 

The  young  men  (as  I  have  hinted)  were  no 
bother  to  me.  They  came  with  their  light  hearts 
and  leaping  hopes,  enlivened  each  meal  by  their 
chatter,  and  then  were  off  again.  If  a  time  came 
when  I  had  no  desire  to  hear  their  small  talk,  I 
had  but  to  remain  away  from  the  table,  knowing 
that  either  my  sister  or  Mandy  Satterlee  would 
put  by  something  for  me. 

And  so  the .  days  went  by,  winter  giving  place 
to  the  gradual  approach  of  spring.  One  of  the 
first  intimations  was  the  fluttering  of  a  pair  of 
bluebirds  around  a  hollow  post  in  the  garden. 
Then  came  Miss  Jennie  Wren  and  her  chosen  one 
peeping  about  in  my  honeysuckle  vine,  and  mak- 
ing an  extraordinary  disturbance  for  so  small  a 
pair  when  they  saw  Tommy  Tinkins  promenading 
in  that  neighborhood.  Following  hard  upon  their 
heels  (if  one  may  say  so)  a  mocking-bird  perched 
*  himself  in  the  top  of  the  cedar,  and  swinging  as 
in  a  hammock,  took  it  upon  himself  to  show  the 
other  birds  how  they  should  deliver  themselves  of 
the  songs  that  are  native  to  their  throats.  Then 
the  plum-trees  put  forth  their  forward  blossoms, 


MISS  MARY  BULL  ARB. 


69 


followed  by  the  peach-trees,  until,  presently  (in 
a  night,  as  it  were),  spring  was  upon  us,  and 
Mary  Bullard  filled  all  the  garden  with  her  pres- 
ence, her  beauty  and  innocence  comparable  only 
to  the  first  shy  flowers  of  the  season. 

If  her  name  has  not  been  mentioned  more  fre- 
quently in  these  pages  it  is  not  because  she  ceased 
to  play  a  definite  part  in  the  scenes,  commonplace 
or  otherwise,  that  were  a  part  of  our  daily  expe- 
rience. She  was  in  and  out  of  the  house  con- 
stantly, only  the  severest  weather  preventing  her 
from  paying  a  daily  visit  to  sister  Jane.  It  may 
have  been  my  fancy,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
after  she  had  been  told  the  story  of  the  finding  of 
Mandy  Satterlee  in  the  snow  and  sleet  on  that 
bitter  cold  night,  her  manner  was  a  shade  more 
pensive  than  before.  It  was  as  if  she  had  some- 
thing more  serious  to  think  about,  some  new  and 
strange  problem  to  unravel.  When  the  weather 
became  really  fine,  she  would  wander  in  the  gar- 
den with  a  book,  which  she  only  read  by  snatches. 
Many  a  time,  as  she  sat  in  the  latticed  summer- 
house,  I  have  seen  the  book  slip  through  her 
fingers  and  fall  to  the  ground  unnoticed,  while 
she  gazed  into  space  lost  in  thought.  I  used  to 
say  to  myself  with  a  sigh,  as  I  watched  her  from 
my  covert  of  honeysuckle  vines,  that  her  thoughts 
were  not  my  thoughts.  She  was  blossoming  into 
young  womanhood,  while  my  star  of  destiny  (if 
perchance  I  had  one)  had  already  passed  the 
zenith. 


70 


SISTER  JANE. 


Say  what  you  will,  there  is  a  wide  gap  between 
twenty  and  thirty  odd  when  these  numbers  mark 
the  years.  There  is  a  wider  gap  still  between  a 
girl  of  nineteen  or  twenty,  full  of  life  and  the  joy 
of  living,  and  an  old  man  of  thirty -five  or  forty, 
who  begins  to  look  backward  instead  of  forward, 
and  who  sighs  for  the  days  that  are  gone  instead 
of  fixing  expectation  on  those  that  are  to  come. 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  says  it  is  the  heaviest  stone 
melancholy  can  throw  at  a  man  to  tell  him  he  is 
at  the  end  of  his  nature;  but  melancholy  has 
pebbles  which,  on  occasions,  she  fits  to  her  sling. 
She  throws  a  jagged  one  when,  knocking  at  the 
door  of  a  man's  heart,  she  tells  him  that  he  has 
arrived  at  the  age  when  love  is  not  for  him,  that 
he  has  come  to  the  period  when  youth  and  beauty 
must  pass  him  by.  I  never  looked  at  Mary  Bul- 
lard  but  this  jagged  pebble  came  whizzing  through 
the  honeysuckle  vines.  Sometimes,  indeed,  it  rat- 
tled harmless  at  my  feet,  but  there  were  other 
times  when  it  hit  the  mark  and  left  a  wound. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  pensiveness  added  a  new 
charm  to  Mary's  beauty,  or  it  may  have  been  that 
her  beauty  lent  a  new  charm  to  pensiveness. 
Sometimes  she  would  leave  her  book  and  her  hat 
in  the  summer  house,  and  make  our  kitchen  beau- 
tiful by  her  presence.  There  she  would  make 
herself  agreeable  to  Mandy  Satterlee,  and  such 
was  her  gift  for  attracting  the  love  of  all  who 
knew  her  that  Mandy,  as  she  often  said  herself, 
came  to  worship  the  ground  that  Mary  walked  on. 


MISS  MARY  BULL  ARB. 


71 


And  Mandy  was  not  without  companionship  in 
this ;  she  had  her  fellow  worshippers.  By  instinct 
or  intuition  Mary  Bullard  seemed  to  know  that 
here  was  a  woman  who  stood  in  sore  need  of  the 
sympathy  of  the  innocent  and  pure-minded  of  her 
own  sex.  This  sympathy  Mary  gave  to  Mandy 
Satterlee  in  full  measure,  and  found  her  reward 
in  a  devotion  that  was  beautiful  to  behold. 

I  found  out  long  afterwards  that  sister  Jane 
never  told  Mary  the  story  of  Mandy  Satterlee 's 
troubles.  Nor  did  my  sister  ever  tell  it  to  me; 
I  only  came  to  know  it  gradually,  as  it  is  unfolded 
in  these  pages.  And  I  thank  heaven  that  all  the 
facts  never  came  to  Mary's  ears  until  Providence 
had  robbed  the  episode  of  some  of  the  features 
that  had  else  been  such  a  severe  shock  to  her 
innocence. 

Innocence!  Her  character,  her  conversation, 
every  tone  of  her  voice,  every  gesture  of  her 
hands,  each  glance  of  her  eye,  gave  a  new  mean- 
ing and  illumination  to  the  word.  This  had  been 
so  borne  in  upon  me  that  when  Mrs.  Sally  Be- 
shears,  on  an  occasion  that  has  already  been 
described,  made  some  sneering  remarks  about 
Mary  Bullard 's  father,  the  colonel,  and  hinted  at 
some  mistreatment  of  his  brother,  my  surprise 
was  not  greater  than  my  indignation,  but,  besides 
having  a  feeling  of  regard  for  Mrs.  Beshears,  I 
felt  that  I  was  no  match  for  her  in  the  bandying 
of  words.  Reflecting  on  the  matter  afterwards 
and  analyzing  the  motives  that  lay  behind  my 


72 


SISTER  JANE. 


indignation,  I  was  soon  enabled  to  discover  that 
Mary  Bullard  was  behind  it,  and,  though  the 
darkness  of  night  enveloped  me  as  a  mantle,  I 
could  feel  that  the  discovery  carried  the  warm 
blood  to  my  face.  Try  as  I  would,  I  could  find 
no  other  motive.  In  my  mind  the  innocence  of 
Mary  Bullard  was  a  cover  and  protection  for  her 
father's  good  name. 

Something  or  other  —  I  hardly  knew  what,  for 
self-examination  fails  to  reveal  everything  —  the 
words  of  Mrs.  Beshears  became  grounded  in  my 
memory,  and  I  rarely  saw  Colonel  Bullard  go  by 
in  his  stately  and  measured  way  without  defend- 
ing him  in  my  own  mind  from  the  haphazard  and 
flippant  attack  that  Mrs.  Beshears  had  made  on 
him  ;  not  an  attack  either,  but  merely  a  reckless 
hint  of  what  she  might  say  if  she  had  a  mind  to. 
Sometimes  I  felt  that  the  habit  of  solitary  reflec- 
tion led  me  to  exaggerate  the  importance  of  a 
chance  word  dropped  from  the  tongue  of  an  old 
woman  who  rarely  took  the  trouble  to  measure  the 
effect  of  her  statements.  Once  I  mentioned  the 
matter  to  sister  Jane,  who  had  good  judgment  in 
such  matters,  but  I  got  small  consolation  from  her. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  William!"  she  ex- 
claimed, "what  have  you  got  to  do  with  Colonel 
Bullard?  He  's  at  one  end  of  the  block  and 
you  're  at  the  other.  He  's  attending  to  his  busi- 
ness every  day  and  not  bothering  you;  why  can't 
you  attend  to  your  business,  if  you 've  got  any,' 
and  not  pester  him?  " 


MISS  MARY  BULLARD. 


73 


"But  you  heard  what  Mrs.  Beshears  said  about 
him,"  I  persisted. 

"I  ain't  so  mighty  certain  of  that,  neither," 
said  sister  Jane.  "As  people  talk,  so  I  listen. 
Sally  Beshears  don't  know  what  she  's  going  to 
say  until  the  word  's  out  of  her  mouth,  and  by  the 
time  it 's  out  of  her  mouth,  it 's  out  of  her  mind. 
But  what  have  you  got  to  do  with  Colonel  Bul- 
lard's  ups  and  downs,  I 'd  like  to  know? " 

"Well,  there 's  Mary,"  I  suggested. 

"And  what  about  Mary?" 

"She 's  his  daughter." 

"Well,  you  are  coming  on!  "  cried  sister  Jane, 
lifting  her  eyebrows  in  a  way  I  did  n't  like. 
"You  are  so  tied  up  with  yourself  that  I  didn't 
know  but  you  might  think  Mary  was  the  colonel's 
grandmother.  She  was  in  here  to-day,  and  said 
she  did  n't  believe  you  had  looked  at  her  since  she 
got  back  from  '  Philamadelphy, '  as  old  Sol,  the 
negro,  calls  it." 

"She  's  very  much  mistaken,"  I  answered  with 
some  heat. 

"Don't  get  mad  with  the  poor  child.  She 
wasn't  crying  when  she  said  it,  I  '11  tell  you  that." 

"I  can  well  believe  that,"  said  I.  "Why 
should  she  care  whether  I  cast  my  eyes  towards 
her  or  not?  " 

"She  doesn't,"  remarked  sister  Jane,  with  an 
emphasis  I  did  not  relish.  "But  it 's  the  honest 
truth,  William,  you  don't  treat  Mary  with  com- 
mon politeness.    She  never  comes  in  the  house 


74 


SISTER  JANE. 


but  you  jump  up  and  scramble  about  until  you 
get  your  legs  under  you  and  then  shuffle  off  to 
your  den  as  if  you  were  afraid  the  child  would  bite 
you.  Why,  if  she  had  tushes  and  the  will  to  do 
it,  she  couldn't  gnaw  through  your  hide  in  a 
week." 

There  was  enough  truth  in  what  sister  Jane 
said  to  make  it  both  disagreeable  and  embarrass- 
ing, and  I  felt  myself  growing  red  in  the  face. 

"I  don't  say  you  ought  to  follow  her  up  and 
dawdle  around  her,"  sister  Jane  went  on,  repent- 
ing a  little;  "you  're  too  old  for  that;  but  you  've 
been  knowing  her  ever  since  she  was  a  little  bit 
of  a  gal,  and  what 's  the  use  of  running  away 
every  time  she  darkens  the  door?  'T  ain't  been 
a  week  since  she  asked  me  what  was  the  matter 
with  you.  I  wanted  to  know  what  she  meant, 
and  she  said  you  had  changed  so  since  she  went 
off  to  school  that  she  didn't  know  what  to  make 
of  it." 

"Why,  don't  you  see  what  the  trouble  is?"  I 
cried.  "The  change  is  in  her.  She  was  a  young 
girl  when  she  went  away,  and  when  she  came 
back  she  was  a  grown  young  woman." 

"That  sort  of  talk  is  like  lighting  a  candle  in 
a  dark  room  and  then  snuffing  it  out  again.  She 's 
changed  from  a  girl  to  a  likely  young  woman,  but 
that 's  no  reason  why  you  should  act  as  if  you  was 
af eared  she  'd  eat  you  up  the  first  chance  she  got. 
I  declare  if  you  wasn't  my  own  blood  kin,  the 
way  you  do  when  that  child  comes  in  would  be 


MISS  MARY  BULLARD. 


75 


comical.  I  always  have  to  think  up  some  cock- 
and-bull  story  to  account  for  it,  because  —  reely 
—  I  don't  want  Mary  to  see  how  ridiculous  you 
are." 

I  turned  and  stalked  out  of  the  room  with  a 
show  of  indignation  that  was  partly  feigned  and 
partly  real,  and  I  determined  then  and  there  to 
conduct  myself  with  more  dignity  when  Mary 
Bullard  happened  to  find  me  in  sister  Jane's 
room,  or  in  that  part  of  the  house. 

One  day,  in  reflecting  over  what  sister  Jane  had 
said,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that,  by  changing 
the  subject  in  such  a  manner  as  to  take  me  off  my 
feet,  she  had  neatly  avoided  expressing  her  opinion 
as  to  the  truth  or  falsity  of  Mrs.  Beshears's  innu- 
endoes in  regard  to  Colonel  Bullard.  But  fortune 
(as  I  thought)  seemed  to  favor  my  inquisitiveness 
in  this  matter,  for  it  was  not  long  before  Mrs. 
Beshears,  paying  us  one  of  her  regular  evening 
visits,  happened  to  mention  the  name  of  Colonel 
Bullard.  Whereupon  I  was  prompt  to  remind 
her  of  the  remarks  she  had  made  about  him  some 
months  before.  She  laughed  somewhat  harshly, 
exchanged  glances  with  sister  Jane,  which  struck 
me.  as  somewhat  singular,  and  then  looked  into 
the  flame  of  the  candle.  There  was  silence  for 
a  while,  and  then  sister  Jane  spoke. 

"If  all  fools  were  fiddlers,  Sally,  we'd  know 
'em  by  the  bag  they 'd  carry,"  she  remarked. 

"That's  a  true  word,  Jane,"  assented  Mrs. 
Beshears.    Then  they  both  laughed,  but,  for  my 

I 


76 


SISTER  JANE. 


part,  I  was  totally  in  the  dark  as  to  the  cause  of 
their  merriment,  and  am  to  this  day. 

"I'll  tell  you,  William,"  said  Mrs.  Beshears, 
turning  to  me  in  a  kindly  way  that  was  almost 
motherly,  "you  mustn't  remember  every  word 
that  the  old  woman  lets  drop.  Sometimes  she  's 
fretted,  but  that 's  because  she  has  a  heap  more 
on  her  mind  than  you  've  any  idee  of.  As  you 
see  Colonel  Bullard  now,  so  he  's  been  for  many 
a  long  year.  My  advice,  William,  is  for  you  to 
take  folks  as  you  find  'em,  an'  if  they  don't  pester 
you,  don't  you  pester  them." 

"But  you  said  something  about  his  brother," 
I  ventured  to  suggest. 

"  Did  I,  reely  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Beshears.  "  Well, 
I  might  'a'  done  it,  because  the  colonel  had  a 
brother.  You  know,  William,  the  colonel's  folks 
moved  here  from  the  Goosepond  settlement  down 
yander  in  Wilkes,  an'  that 's  where  my  folks 
come  from.  The  colonel  had  a  brother,  there 
ain't  no  manner  o'  doubt  about  that.  What  did 
I  tell  you  his  name  was,  Jane?  Oh,  yes,  Clar- 
ence —  Clarence  Bullard.  He 'd  be  somewhere's 
about  fifty  year  old  if  he 'd  'a'  kept  straight,  but 
his  daddy  named  him  a  book  name." 

"A  book  name!"  cried  Mandy  Satterlee,  who 
was  sitting  near  the  candle-stand  doing  some 
mending.  "Well,  the  lawsy  massy!  What  kind 
of  a  name  is  that? " 

"A  name  took  out  of  a  book,"  replied  Mrs. 
Beshears.    "I've  heard  all  my  life  that  a  name 


MISS  MARY  BULL  ARB. 


77 


took  out  of  a  book  is  mighty  apt  to  stunt  a  child, 
if  it  don't  make  him  go  wrong  when  he  grows  up. 
Well,  when  the  colonel's  brother  was  born,  his 
daddy  wanted  a  nice  name  for  him,  so  he  read 
and  read  in  books,  and  bimeby  he  come  across 
this  name  of  Clarence,  and  he  slapt  it  onto  the 
poor  little  baby  without  knowin'  or  a-keerin' 
whether  it  fit  or  not." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  that  name?" 
I  asked  in  some  surprise. 

"Matter!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Beshears.  "Every- 
thing 's  the  matter  with  it.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
anybody  named  Clarence  a-doin'  a  day's  work  in 
all  your  whole  lifetime?  If  you  've  ever  heard  of 
it,  jest  let  me  know  an'  I  '11  up  an'  make  a  black 
mark  on  the  chimney- jam  there." 

Mrs.  Beshears  looked  at  me  so  seriously  that 
I  was  obliged  to  smile,  seeing  which,  she  resumed 
her  argument,  and  in  a  way  not  very  comfortable 
to  me. 

"Take  your  own  name,"  she  said.  "If  Jane 
here  had  called  you  Bill,  you  would  'a'  grow'd 
up  to  be  a  tall  stout  man,  but  she  called  you 
William,  an'  that  stunted  you  in  heft  an'  height. 
Don't  tell  me  there  ain't  nothin'  in  a  name.  I  'm 
lots  too  old  to  be  fooled  that  a-way.  Why,  sup- 
posin'  they 'd  'a'  called  me  Sarah,  sticlder  Sal : 
what  under  the  blue  canopy  would  I  'a'  looked 
like?" 

Truth  to  tell,  I  was  both  vexed  and  amused, 
but  I  was  quick  to  remember  that  the  wisest  of 


78  SISTER  JANE. 

men  is  no  match  for  a  shrewd  woman's  tongue. 
Moreover,  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  perceive 
that  my  anxiety  to  defend  Colonel  Bullard  was 
ridiculous  in  the  extreme.  It  came  to  me  in  a 
flash,  when  Mrs.  Beshears  inquired  in  a  tone  more 
solemn  than  usual :  — 

"William,  has  the  colonel  got  you  hired  in  a 
law-case,  or  somethin'  of  that  sort?" 

"No,  ma'am!"  I  replied  emphatically,  realiz- 
ing the  awkwardness  of  my  position.  "What 
put  that  queer  idea  into  your  head?  " 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  answered. 

"What  became  of  the  colonel's  brother?"  I 
asked,  more  to  hide  my  own  confusion  than  to  get 
the  information  I  asked  for.  The  brother  was 
nothing  to  me. 

"Now  that 's  what  pesters  me,"  said  Mrs.  Be- 
shears reflectively.  "The  colonel  was  his  guar- 
deen,  but  as  soon  as  Clarence  come  of  age,  he 
took  his  name  an'  what  little  of  his  belongings 
that  he  had  left  and  packed  'em  all  up  in  a  carpet- 
sack,  an'  jest  made  a  teetotal  disappearance.  But 
I  most  always  say  to  myself,  when  I  think  about 
it,  that  nobody,  not  even  the  colonel,  don't  want 
any  brother,  when  he  's  got  as  handsome  a  gal  as 
Mary  Bullard.  How  is  Mary,  Jane?  She  ain't 
been  out  my  way  not  sence  the  apples  was  in  blos- 
som." 

Then  the  conversation  drifted  to  matters  in 
which  I  had  no  interest,  and  I  took  myself  off  to 
my  room,  to  sit  in  the  dark  and  have  strange 


MISS  MARY  BULLARD. 


79 


thoughts,  and,  when  drowsiness  overcame  me,  to 
go  to  bed  and  dream  strange  dreams.  For,  small 
as  the  room  was,  it  was  the  door  of  the  world  to 
me,  especially  when  the  dark  had  fallen  and  the 
lights  in  the  village  had  been  put  out  one  by  one. 
I  had  but  to  enter  it  and  set  my  fancy  free,  as 
a  wild  bird  is  loosed  from  a  cage,  and,  lo!  the 
stars  became  lanthorns  to  guide  my  imagination 
on  her  way.  The  dull  world,  where,  of  necessity, 
I  had  my  board  and  lodging,  went  reeling  and 
plunging  through  its  shadow,  leaving  me  far  be- 
hind, or  found  me,  when  black  midnight  peered 
around  the  corner,  journeying  far  ahead.  It  gave 
me  pure  joy  to  know  and  feel  that  I  was  not  the 
awkward,  commonplace  mortal  that  my  acquaint- 
ances knew;  to  feel  that  I  could  lift  my  thoughts 
as  high  as  the  heavens  and  claim  an  ownership  in 
the  whirling  orbs  of  fire  that  I  found  there. 

But  the  earth  is  the  earth,  after  all,  and  it  was 
not  without  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  that  I  found 
my  feet  there  after  my  nightly  routs  among  the 
constellations.  On  this  particular  night,  when  I 
went  to  my  room,  after  talking  with  sister  Jane 
and  Mrs.  Beshears,  my  thoughts  did  not  lift  them- 
selves to  the  abiding-place  of  the  serene  stars.  I 
had  a  vague  idea  that  I  had  been  made  the  victim 
of  chaff.  And  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me 
that  Colonel  Bullard  had  not  passed  through  the 
garden  on  his  way  to  and  from  his  business  since 
the  day  of  the  big  snow.  This  struck  me  as  a 
curious  circumstance,  for  he  had  been  in  the 


80 


SISTER  JANE. 


habit  of  coming  and  going  that  way  at  least  twice 
a  day,  especially  of  mornings,  when  he  would 
look  in  and  say  a  pleasant  word  to  sister  Jane 
(while  Tommy  Tinkins,  the  cat,  hid  under  the 
house)  or  remark  to  me  in  a  cheery  tone :  — 

"How's  business  in  the  legal  world,  William? 
Not  good,  I  hope,  for  when  lawyers  lack  for 
clients  it  is  a  sign  that  neighbors  are  at  peace." 

And  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he 
would  begin  to  hum  a  religious  tune,  and  go  on 
his  way,  dignified  and  benignant.  Being  in  the 
habit  of  picking  my  own  thoughts  to  pieces,  as 
the  negroes  not  very  long  ago  picked  the  lint  from 
the  cotton -seed,  I  wondered  why  I  had  not  missed 
the  colonel's  large  presence  from  the  garden  some 
time  before.  Winter  had  become  spring,  and 
summer  was  putting  on  her  robes,  and  yet,  until 
now,  I  had  not  observed  that  Colonel  Bullard  no 
longer  passed  through  the  garden.  If  a  shrub 
had  been  taken  from  the  flourishing  expanse,  I 
should  have  missed  it;  if  one  of  the  little  wrens 
nesting  above  the  door  had  lost  a  feather  from 
a  wing,  I  should  have  known  it;  and  how  my 
observation  had  failed  in  the  case  of  Colonel  Bul- 
lard, I  could  not  understand.  If  it  had  been 
Mary  —  but  that  was  different,  entirely  different; 
there  is  a  certain  atmosphere  a  beautiful  girl  car- 
ries with  her  that  makes  her  presence  felt. 

For  weeks  after  this,  I  watched  for  the  colonel 
to  come  through  the  garden,  but  he  never  came. 
Once  I  saw  him,  through  force  of  habit,  come 


MISS  MARY  BULL  ARB. 


81 


part  of  the  way,  but  he  turned  suddenly,  as  though 
he  had  forgotten  something,  went  back,  and  finally 
came  along  the  sidewalk.  I  made  it  a  point  to  be 
at  our  little  gate  when  he  passed  by  and  gave  him 
a  good-morning  as  heartily  as  I  could.  He  bowed 
coldly  and  formally,  and  failed  to  hum  a  tune,  so 
far  as  I  could  hear.  It  was  plain  to  the  dullest 
eye  that  Colonel  Bullard  was  worried  about  some- 
thing, and  I  could  not  help  pitying  him. 

Whatever  his  troubles  were,  they  must  have 
been  serious.  He  did  not  hold  his  head  erect  as 
formerly,  and  he  grew  so  absent-minded  that  he 
frequently  went  home  on  the  sidewalk  opposite  his 
house,  a  proceeding  that  was  so  at  variance  with 
his  usual  methodical  habits  that  the  circumstance, 
though  trifling,  was  remarked  by  others  less  ob- 
servant than  myself.  Others  remarked  also  the 
gradual  change  in  his  manner.  In  this  way  these 
things  were  so  borne  in  upon  me,  that  I  at  length 
felt  justified  in  mentioning  the  matter  to  sister 
Jane.  I  had  intended  to  refer  to  them  in  sequence, 
but  I  got  no  farther  than  the  fact  that  Colonel 
Bullard  had  ceased  to  pass  to  and  fro  through  the 
garden.  At  this  point  sister  Jane  lifted  up  her 
voice. 

"Mandy!  Mandy  Satterlee!"  she  called  at  the 
top  of  her  voice.  Mandy,  who  was  in  the  cook- 
room,  came  running  in,  brushing  the  flour  from 
her  bare  arms.  "Mandy,  I  wish  you'd  take  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  off,  and  go  round  the  house 
and  see  if  any  of  the  walls  has  caved  in,  or  if  the 
underpinning  has  give  way  anywhere." 


82  SISTER  JANE. 

A  startled  expression  sprang  into  Mandy's  face. 
"Why,  Miss  Jane!  what  under  the  canopies  is 
the  matter?" 

"Why,  William  here  says  that  Colonel  Bullard 
actually  don't  come  through  the  garden  for  to  tell 
us  howdy  any  more.  If  that 's  so,  I  know  there 
must  have  been  a  cave-in  somewhere." 

Mandy  Satterlee  usually  laughed  at  my  sister's 
sallies,  but  this  time  surprise  and  expectation 
faded  out  of  her  face  without  giving  place  to 
amusement.  She  merely  said,  "We'll  hunt  for 
it  to-morrow,"  and  went  back  to  her  cooking. 
As  for  me,  I  went  out  of  the  room  with  as  much 
dignity  as  I  could  command  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

But  there  came  a  time,  and  that  shortly,  when 
we  all  pitied  Colonel  Bullard  and  his  family. 
Speaking  for  myself,  I  am  free  to  say  that  I  was 
both  shocked  and  grieved,  for  the  circumstances, 
so  far  as  I  know,  were  without  parallel  or  prece- 
dent in  our  section  of  the  Union. 


VII. 


THE  PICTUEES  ON  THE  WALL. 

As  may  well  be  supposed,  the  observations  tliat 
have  been  recorded  here  in  regard  to  the  peculiar 
conduct  of  Colonel  Bullard  covered  not  a  week, 
nor  a  month,  but  a  period  embracing  a  part  of 
spring  and  the  whole  of  the  summer  following  the 
big  snow.  Nor  was  I  the  only  one  who  noted  and 
commented  on  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in 
his  manner.  It  had  attracted  the  attention  of 
almost  everybody,  in  the  community.  Some  sug- 
gested that  he  was  suffering  from  liver  troubles, 
while  others  said  that  the  bank  failures  had  wor- 
ried him.  In  the  entire  village,  I  knew  of  but 
three  people  who  were  willing  to  admit  that  they 
could  see  no  change  in  the  colonel  —  sister  Jane, 
Mrs.  Beshears,  and  Mandy  Satterlee  —  and  two 
of  them,  I  knew,  had  eyes  as  sharp  as  it  is  ever 
given  to  mortals  to  have. 

On  one  occasion,  when  the  matter  had  become 
common  to  the  gossip  and  chatter  of  the  village, 
I  heard  Mrs.  Sue  Flewellen,  who  had  come  to 
see  sister  Jane  for  the  express  purpose,  making 
such  inquiries  as  would  lead,  ordinarily,  to  a  dis- 
cussion of  the  colonel's  mental,  physical,  and 
pecuniary  condition. 


84 


SISTER  JANE. 


"Er  Jane,  how  is  er  Colonel  Bullard  now?" 
asked  Mrs.  Flewellen. 

"Well  as  common,  Sue,  I  reckon.  If  lie's 
sick,  it  ain't  come  to  my  ears,"  replied  sister 
Jane. 

"Er  well,  that  is  real  funny,  now.  Why,  er 
Jane,  they  say  he's  going  er  off  into  a  decline." 

"He  may  be  for  all  I  know,"  was  the  unsatis- 
factory response.  "Nobody  ain't  too  good  to  go 
into  a  decline  when  the  time  comes.  It 's  what 
everybody  has  to  expect  some  time  or  other." 

"Oh,  but,  er  Jane,  you  must  er  have  noticed 
the  change  in  er  Colonel  Bullard  —  it's  er  such 
a  change !  I  declare !  I  er  feel  real  sorry  for  his 
er  wife  and  family.  Why,  er  Jane,  he  's  not  the 
same  man;  he 's  er  no  more  like  Colonel  er  Bul- 
lard used  to  be  than  er  I  am." 

"Well,  I  '11  take  a  good  look  at  the  colonel 
next  time  I  see  him,"  said  sister  Jane,  "and  see 
what 's  the  matter  with  him.  If  he  looks  like  he 
needs  any  physic,  I  '11  tell  him  to  go  and  see  old 
Free  Betsey.  If  she  can't  cure  him,  she  can 
conjure  him." 

"Oh,  it's  er  awful,  Jane  —  and  you've  never 
er  noticed  it !  " 

"Sue,"  remarked  sister  Jane,  with  solemn 
emphasis,  "a  man's  no  more  to  me  than  a  jay- 
bird. I  hear  a  flutter  in  the  chaney -berry  tree, 
and  look  up  and  see  a  jaybird.  I  hear  somebody 
stepping  along  as  big  as  if  he  owned  the  town, 
and  I  look  up  and  see  a  man.    The  bird  hops  off 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  WALL. 


85 


and  the  man  walks  on.  Out  of  sight,  out  of 
mind.  If  Colonel  Bullard  was  to  come  and  set 
in  that  cheer  there,  I  might  notice  that  he  wasn't 
looking  well,  but  that  's  about  all.  Why,  I 
wouldn't  know  whether  William  was  well  or  not 
(and  he 's  here  in  the  house)  if  he  wasn't  so  help- 
less and  good  for  nothing  that  I  have  to  take  pity 
on  him." 

Now,  I  would  have  taken  it  for  granted  that 
sister  Jane  was  merely  playing  with  Mrs.  Flewel- 
len  if  she  hadn't  made  a  like  reply  to  my  own 
questions  —  a  reply  not  in  the  same  terms,  but  to 
the  same  purport.  Mrs.  Beshears  had  seen  no- 
thing queer  about  the  colonel,  nor  had  Mandy 
Satterlee,  who,  indeed,  was  not  expected  to  note 
any  change,  having  been  born  and  bred  some  dis- 
tance from  the  village. 

But  we  soon  became  used  to  whatever  change 
of  demeanor  Colonel  Bullard  may  have  displayed. 
Gradually  his  old  dignity  reasserted  itself;  he 
began  to  hum  religious  tunes  again;  and  if  he 
was  not  as  cordial  to  me  as  formerly  he  had  been, 
he  was  polite.  But  he  came  through  the  garden 
no  more,  continuing  to  pass  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street  in  going  to  and  from  his  home.  So 
that  what  had  been  for  a  time  the  occasion  of 
much  talk  was  soon  forgotten,  especially  by  those 
who  had  made  the  matter  the  subject  of  aimless 
gossip. 

Meanwhile  summer  had  drawn  away  into  au- 
tumn.   The  skies  were  filled  with  the  mystic  haze 


86 


SISTER  JANE. 


that  marks  the  season,  and  the  gray  green  of  the 
great  woods  stretching  away  on  all  sides  deepened 
into  more  sombre  tints,  or  blazed  forth  in  scarlet, 
crimson,  and  yellow.  The  roses  bloomed  in  their 
richest  beauty,  and  the  crisp  cool  nights  and  the 
dewy  mornings  were  a  sufficient  compensation  for 
the  heat  of  the  days. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  fine  mornings  that  my 
attention  was  called  to  a  group  of  men  and  chil- 
dren —  white  and  black  —  standing  in  front  of 
the  dead  wall  of  an  old  building  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street.  During  the  night  the  wall  had 
been  covered  with  flaming  pictures,  and  it  was 
these  that  had  caught  the  eye  of  the  crowd.  I 
could  hear  the  negroes  and  the  children  making 
many  exclamations  of  wonder,  while  the  white 
men  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  studying  the  gaudy 
pictures.  To  satisfy  my  own  curiosity,  I  crossed 
the  street,  and  saw  that  these  immense  bills  were 
intended  to  inform  the  public  at  large  that  Kob- 
inson  &  Eldred's  circus  and  menagerie  would 
pitch  its  tent  and  display  its  wonders  on  the  date 
set  forth,  which,  as  I  have  good  reason  to  remem- 
ber, was  the  third  day  of  the  first  week  in  Novem- 
ber, the  bills  having  been  posted  sufficiently  in  ad- 
vance of  that  time  for  all  the  country-side  to  have 
notice  served  on  it  that  the  wonderful  show  was 
coming. 

A  great  many  people  in  the  village  had  heard 
of  circuses,  but  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  had 
ever  seen  one  —  merchants  who  traveled  once  a 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  WALL. 


87 


year  to  Augusta,  Charleston,  or  New  York  to  lay 
in  supplies  of  goods.  These  favored  ones  brought 
back  wonderful  reports  of  the  sights  they  had 
seen  at  the  show,  and  the  flaming  bills  now  spread 
forth  on  the  walls  seemed  to  be  a  confirmation  of 
their  reports.  I  sympathized  somewhat  with  the 
natural  curiosity  of  the  community,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  and  presently  found  myself  as  deeply 
absorbed  in  studying  the  pictures  as  the  most 
enthusiastic  urchin  in  the  crowd  —  so  absorbed, 
indeed,  that  sister  Jane  was  obliged  to  send  for 
me,  her  messenger  being  the  negro  boy  whose 
business  it  was  to  wait  on  the  table. 

"Marse  Willyum,"  said  that  grinning  imp, 
"Miss  Jane  say  mus'  she  sen'  yo'  brekkus  out 
yer,  er  mus'  she  put  it  back  in  de  oven?  Kaze 
de  bell  done  ringded  en'  dem  ar  yuther  white 
folks  eatin'  hard  ez  dey  kin." 

Seeing  that  the  boy  enjoyed  my  embarrassment, 
I  slipped  away  from  the  crowd,  and  went  to  break- 
fast. To  forestall  the  sarcastic  remarks  that  I 
thought  would  be  directed  at  me  by  sister  Jane, 
I  gave  Mandy  Satterlee  a  full  description  of  the 
wonders  pictured  forth  on  the  gaudy  bills. 

"Well,  the  lawsy  massy!"  cried  Mandy,  gen- 
uinely amazed.  "What '11  folks  do  next?  Mr. 
William,  you  reckon  them  folks  reely  ride  a-stan- 
in'  on  the'r  heads,  an'  you  reckon  the  gals  reely 
skip  the  rope  an'  jump  through  the  hoop  while 
the  hosses  is  a-gallopm*  ?  I  lay  they  jest  put  that 
in  the  picturs  to  git  you  in  the  show  an'  git  your 


88 


SISTER  JANE. 


money.  I  '11  go  right  over  after  I  clean  up  the 
things  an'  take  a  look  at  'em  for  myself." 

To  my  surprise,  sister  Jane  displayed  consider- 
able enthusiasm  about  the  circus. 

UI  '11  go  if  I  have  to  sell  my  Sunday  bonnet," 
she  declared  with  emphasis.  "I  haven't  been  on 
a  frolic  since  I  went  to  a  picnic  in  the  Glades 
before  William  there  was  born  —  and  you  can  tell 
by  looking  at  him  that  that 's  been  a  mighty  long 
time  ago." 

Mandy  Satterlee  applauded  sister  Jane's  pur- 
pose very  heartily,  and  when  she  had  washed  the 
dishes  and  put  the  kitchen  to  rights,  she  took  her 
baby  on  her  arm  —  he  was  now  a  bouncing  young- 
ster, able  to  walk  about  the  house  —  and  went 
across  the  street  to  get  a  closer  view  of  the  show 
bills.  By  this  time  the  curiosity  of  the  small 
boys  had  been  satiated,  or  they  had  gone  to  other 
quarters  of  the  town  where  other  pictures  had 
been  posted,  as  I  noticed  later.  At  any  rate, 
Mandy  and  her  baby  were  not  disturbed  by  other 
spectators.  While  they  were  standing  there, 
Colonel  Bullard  came  out  of  his  house,  crossed 
over,  as  was  his  habit,  and  walked  down  the 
street.  He  would  be  compelled  to  pass  within  a 
few  feet  of  the  flaring  pictures. 

I  determined  to  watch  him  narrowly  and  observe 
whether  his  troubles,  whatever  they  might  be,  had 
washed  curiosity  out  of  his  nature.  He  came 
down  the  street,  turning  his  head  neither  to  the 
right  nor  the  left.    Mandy' s  baby  had  demanded 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  WALL. 


89 


a  closer  acquaintance  with  one  of  the  big  red 
horses,  and  to  satisfy  him,  she  had  gone  near 
the  picture  to  allow  the  youngster  to  slap  it  with 
his  hand,  and  make  various  ineffectual  efforts 
to  secure  it.  She  was  standing  thus  when  Colonel 
Bullard  passed  by.  He  turned  his  head  in  a 
stately  manner,  looked  hard  at  the  pictures  (as  it 
seemed)  and  then  hurried  on.  He  went  a  few 
steps,  paused,  turned  back,  and  then,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  me,  whirled  on  his  heel,  and  went  down 
town,  going  a  little  more  rapidly  than  usual. 

I  saw  it  all  at  a  glance.  Here  was  the  colonel 
passing  by  the  pictures.  He  read  in  a  moment 
the  big  letters  that  explained  them,  but  considered 
that  it  would  be  beneath  his  dignity  and  standing 
to  pause  and  satisfy  his  curiosity.  Then,  when 
he  passed  on,  the  temptation  to  give  them  a  clear 
examination  was  so  strong  that  he  turned  again, 
saw  me,  and,  rather  than  compromise  his  dignity, 
beat  a  retreat.  This  was  the  explanation  I  made 
of  the  event  to  sister  Jane,  who,  to  my  surprise, 
seemed  to  be  more  interested  in  Colonel  Bullard 's 
actions  than  in  the  show  bills,  for  she  was  particu- 
lar to  have  me  describe  every  motion  he  made  and 
every  step  he  took.  Mandy  Satterlee  heard  a 
part  of  the  description. 

"How  nigh  was  I  to  him  when  he  passed?" 
she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  might  have  put  forth  your  hand  and 
touched  him,"  I  replied. 

"Ugh!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  shudder.  "I 


90 


SISTER  JANE. 


reckon  it  's  a  mighty  good  thing  I  did  n't  see 
him." 

"Why,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  him,"  said  I; 
"though  he  is  dignified  and  serious,  he  is  not 

severe." 

Sister  Jane  laughed  aloud,  and  Mandy  smiled 
faintly. 

"I  declare,  William  Wornum!  for  a  grown 
man  you  're  as  big  a  goose  as  ever  nibbed  green 
grass.  You  've  pored  and  pored  over  them  books 
in  yander  till  you  can't  make  head  nor  tail  out  of 
anything  that  ain't  to  be  found  betwixt  their  leds. 
Why,  you 've  got  so  you  talk  like  'em.  4  Don't 
be  afeared,'"  she  Went  on,  mimicking  my  tone 
and  air;  "'though  he's  dignified  and  serious,  he 
ain't  severe.'  Now,  who  on  top  of  the  globe  (or 
on  the  bottom  of  it,  either,  for  that  matter),  ever 
heard  of  anybody  talking  that  way  outside  the 
leds  of  a  book  too  big  to  tote?  " 

"Well,  in  the  books  that  I  read  I  can  find  out 
everything  I  want  to  know  —  everything  that  is 
worth  knowing,"  I  replied. 

"What  books?  "  asked  my  sister. 

"The  Bible,  Shakespeare,  Montaigne,  and  Sir 
Thomas  Browne." 

"As  for  the  Bible,  well  and  good,"  commented 
sister  Jane.  "But  if  I 've  ever  caught  you  read- 
ing it  more  'n  twice,  I  hope  I  may  never  see  the 
back  of  my  neck.  As  for  the  balance,  one  was 
a  play-actor,  and  nobody  couldn't  expect  any 
better  of  him ;  and  the  t' others  nobody  ever  heard 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  WALL. 


91 


of  till  you  fished  'em  out  of  some  trash  pile. 
Now,  I  want  to  ask  you,"  she  continued —  "when 
will  Mandy  here  have  gray  hair?  " 

"Nobody  knows,"  I  answered. 

"You  mean  you  can't  find  out  in  your  books," 
she  said;  "but  I  can  tell  you  when  her  hair  will 
turn  gray." 

"When?" 

"When  she's  af eared  of  Colonel  Bullard," 
exclaimed  sister  J ane,  somewhat  snappishly. 

Of  course  it  was  beyond  my  power  to  carry  on 
an  argument  in  behalf  of  my  favorite  books  with 
any  hope  of  silencing  sister  Jane,  so  I  did  as  many 
a  wiser  man  has  done  before  me  —  sought  comfort 
in  the  books  themselves,  and  found  it  there ;  be- 
coming for  the  moment  as  oblivious  to  the  joys, 
sufferings,  vainglories,  and  hard  trials  of  this 
world  as  the  writers  were  themselves,  who  long 
ago  had  been  taken  to  the  restful  bosom  of  our 
old  mother,  the  earth. 

And  I  had  another  means  of  diversion  that  had 
gradually  come  to  me  unawares,  and  that  I  could 
turn  to  when  my  mind  grew  too  dull  to  find  enjoy- 
ment in  my  books  —  Mandy  Satterlee's  baby. 
This  rosy  urchin  grew  in  strength,  if  not  in  grace, 
and  had  somehow  taken  a  great  fancy  to  me.  Before 
he  could  walk,  he  began  to  wriggle  to  my  door  on 
hands  and  knees,  and  made  his  presence  known  by 
bumping  his  head  against  the  panels  ■ —  becoming, 
in  this  way,  a  sort  of  baby  battering-ram.  I  was 
under  no  necessity  of  standing  on  ceremony  with 


92 


SISTER  JANE. 


this  visitor.  If  his  coming  was  not  ill-timed,  I 
opened  the  door;  if  it  was,  I  had  but  to  remain 
silent,  and  presently  he  would  wriggle  himself 
away,  perfectly  content. 

In  the  turmoil  and  confusion  that  Mandy  Sat- 
terlee  became  the  centre  of,  after  the  child  found 
its  way  into  this  vain  world,  she  had  neglected  or 
forgotten  to  give  it  a  name.  She  called  it  Mo- 
ther's Precious,  and  that  was  all;  but  sister  Jane, 
more  versatile  if  less  felicitous,  had  bestowed  on 
the  youngster  a  handful  of  names,  all  supposed  to 
bear  some  relation  to  one  another.  She  called 
him  Klubs,  Klibs,  Klubbins,  Klibbins,  and 
Keezes,  indifferently,  and  he,  as  indifferently, 
answered  to  any  or  all.  Out  of  this  quaint  collec- 
tion I  chose  two  for  my  own  use  —  Klibs  and 
Keezes;  so  that  in  one  humor  I  called  him  Klibs, 
and  in  another  Keezes. 

Now,  there  were  occasions  when  Klibs  came 
knocking  at  my  door  that  I  was  glad  to  open  to 
him.  Especially  was  this  the  case  when  I  had 
spent  an  hour  or  two  in  court,  fiddling  over  the 
trifling  details  of  a  petty  lawsuit,  or  when  my  own 
thoughts  wearied  me  and  books  had  temporarily 
lost  their  flavor.  For  I  had  no  reason  to  be  on 
my  dignity  with  Keezes.  I  could  speak  to  him 
gravely  on  matters  that  concerned  me  most,  or  I 
could  be  as  nonsensical  as  I  chose.  I  could  even 
go  off  into  a  rhapsody,  or  impart  to  him  secrets 
that  I  should  have  blushed  to  whisper  to  other 
ears.    It  was  all  one  to  Klibs.    There  was  a  per- 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  WALL. 


93 


feet  understanding  between  us.  He  would  sit  for 
long  minutes  staring  at  me  with  owl-like  wisdom 
while  I  talked  to  him,  and  when  I  was  compelled 
to  pause  for  want  of  breath,  he  would  give  me  to 
understand,  with  some  show  of  impatience,  that 
he  longed  for  more  of  the  attic  eloquence  for 
which  (within  these  four  walls)  I  was  famous. 

In  this  way,  and  with  such  intermissions  as  the 
nature  of  the  case  called  for,  Keezes  and  I  used 
to  spend  hours  together  —  hours  that  were  most 
pleasantly  and  profitably  spent,  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned.  Sometimes  his  mother  would  inter- 
rupt us,  fearing  that  the  baby  was  troublesome. 
If  Klibs  was  ready  to  go,  he  would  permit  him- 
self to  be  carried  off  without  a  murmur ;  otherwise 
he  would  crawl  behind  my  chair  and  squall  lustily 
if  any  attempt  were  made  to  remove  him.  I  grew 
very  fond  of  the  child  in  consequence,  for  even  a 
baby  can  flatter  our  vanity.  We  love  those  who 
love  us,  or,  if  we  do  not  love  them,  we  give  them 
cause  to  think  we  do,  which  (until  we  come  to  the 
end  of  all  things,  and  our  manifold  hypocrisies 
confront  and  overwhelm  us),  amounts  to  pretty 
much  the  same  thing. 

Whether  Keezes  was  wiser  than  any  other  baby 
is  not  for  me  to  say.  My  experience  in  such 
matters  was  circumscribed.  But  he  had  traits 
and  predispositions  that  I  found  profitable  to 
study.  Long  before  he  could  talk,  he  seemed  to 
understand  the  high-flown  statements  which,  with 
an  affectation  of  solemnity,  I  was  in  the  habit  of 


94 


SISTER  JANE. 


making  to  him.  If  he  reached  forth  a  dirty  hand 
to  tonch  a  book,  I  had  but  to  say :  44  Nay,  nay, 
Keezes!  touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not.  Go 
cleanse  the  disreputable  member."  Whereupon 
he  would  look  hard  at  his  hand  and  presently  fall 
to  picking  the  ravelings  in  the  frayed  edge  of  the 
rag  carpet,  listening  patiently  all  the  while  to 
whatever  discourse  I  might  choose  to  pour  into  his 
unprotected  ear.  He  had  the  gift  of  patience,  a 
quality  that,  admirable  in  man,  amounts  to  genius 
in  a  child.  I  can  say  now,  even  at  this  writing, 
that  Klibs  was  the  only  genius  I  ever  was  on 
familiar  terms  with.  He  had  taste,  too,  for  he 
was  exceedingly  fond  of  Mary  Bullard;  and  dis- 
cretion :  I  have  seen  him  carry  a  rose  in  his  hand 
for  an  hour  and  never  destroy  one  of  its  petals. 
It  was  thus  an  easy  matter  for  a  man,  enamored 
of  solitude  and  impatient  of  needless  interruptions, 
to  tolerate  —  nay,  to  enjoy  —  the  companionship 
of  this  quaint  baby,  whose  very  name  had  been 
blotted  out  by  the  bar  sinister. 

As  the  time  for  the  circus  drew  near,  the  expec- 
tation, that  was  on  tiptoe,  had  the  ground  cut 
from  under  its  feet  by  the  protests  that  were 
made  from  the  pulpit.  These  protests  might  have 
been  anticipated,  but  they  were  not;  and  they 
caused  as  much  of  a  splutter  as  the  pouring  of  a 
gourd  full  of  cold  water  in  a  hot  oven.  The  very 
name  of  the  village  —  Hallyton  —  might  have 
been  a  warning  to  those  who  knew  its  origin. 
When  the  settlement  was  founded   by  pioneer 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  WALL. 


95 


emigrants  from  Wilkes  County,  the  church  that 
was  built  gave  its  name  to  the  place.  It  was 
called  Bethel.  Travelers  passing  through,  later, 
on  their  way  to  and  from  the  Indian  trading- 
posts,  always  found  the  people  of  Bethel  carrying 
on  a  religious  revival.  Among  these  travelers 
were  to  be  found  many  ungodly  men,  who  scof- 
flngly  gave  Bethel  the  name  of  Hallyloo  —  by  way 
of  indicating  the  extreme  piety  of  the  people. 
The  name  stuck  so  fast  that  when  the  settlement 
grew  into  a  village  and  became  the  county  site, 
the  people  met  together  and  compromised  the 
matter  by  giving  to  the  place  the  name  of  Hally- 
ton. 

Now,  the  lapse  of  years,  if  it  had  not  intensi- 
fied, had  by  no  means  dimmed  the  piety  that 
provoked  the  ridicule  of  the  scoffers.  Conse- 
quently, the  pillars  of  the  church,  as  such  men  as 
Colonel  Bullard  were  called,  began  a  crusade 
against  the  sin  of  circus-going  (which,  indeed, 
owing  to  the  absence  of  active  temptation,  was 
not  very  prevalent  amongst  us)  much  to  the  disgust 
of  the  younger  generation.  What  real  effect  the 
crusade  had  is  beyond  conjecture.  It  caused  some 
hard  feelings  in  the  different  congregations,  but  it 
gave  everybody  something  to  talk  about.  Mrs. 
Sue  Flewellen  came  all  the  way  across  the  village 
(and  it  was  a  pretty  step,  too)  to  tell  sister  Jane 
that  she  heard  Mrs.  Lucindy  Winslett  say  that 
Mrs.  Cosby  had  declared  that  she  heard  Mrs. 
Printup  say  that  if  she  had  known  all  this  fuss 


96 


SISTEB  JANE. 


was  to  be  made  over  one  poor  little  show  (and  it 
mnst  be  a  mighty  poor  show  to  come  to  such  a 
town  as  this)  she  would  never  have  joined  the' 
church  until  the  last  of  November;  and  she  didn't 
care  who  knew  it  or  who  heard  her  say  it. 

"What  sort  of  religion  do  you  call  that ?  "  in- 
quired sister  Jane,  sarcastically. 

"Oh,  er  don't  ask  ??ie,  Jane,  er  ask  most  any- 
body er  but  me.  Er  between  you  and  me,  er 
Jane,  I  'd  give  anything  to  go  to  er  that  circus. 
Pony  Harvey  er  has  been  to  see  it,  and  he  says 
it 's  er  just  grand;  er  the  finest  music  he  ever  er 
listened  at,  and  er  bangles  and  er  spangles  till 
you  er  want  to  quit  er  lookin'  at  'em." 

"If  you  want  to  go,  why  don't  you  go?"  sister 
Jane  asked  sharply.  "You  are  white  and  free, 
and  mighty  nigh  twice  twenty-one  if  not  more. 
What 's  to  hender  you  from  going?  " 

"Er  well,  you  know  how  they  er  talk.  Why, 
I  'd  er  never  hear  the  last  of  it.  Er  when  folks 
move  in  the  er  first  circles,  Jane,  er  like  you  and 
me,  the  very  least  er  thing  they  do  is  er  picked 
up  and  er  turned  over,  and  er  looked  at,  and  so 
er  we  've  got  to  toe  the  er  line.  We  've  made  it 
and  er  we've  got  to  toe  it,  Jane;  you  know  that 
er  yourself." 

"In  the  first  circles?"  cried  sister  Jane,  with 
unmixed  amazement., 

"Why,  of  er  course,  Jane." 

Sister  Jane  laughed  heartily.  "Well,  Sue," 
she  said,  "you  know  I  used  to  tell  you  at  school 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  WALL. 


97 


that  you  wa'n't  right  bright.  I  can  tell  you  now 
that  you  ain't  improved  a  bit.  You  've  hit  off 
a  joke  and  you  don't  laugh  at  it.  What  in  the 
world  is  the  matter  with  you?  Why  don't  you 
laugh  at  your  own  fun.  First  circles!  and  in 
Ashbank  deestrict !  Why,  I  '11  get  William  to 
put  it  down  and  send  it  to  old  Billy  Grier  to  put 
in  his  almanac." 

"I  declare,  er  Jane!  You  turn  everything 
into  er  fun.  No  matter  about  the  er  place;  some- 
body is  er  bound  to  be  on  top." 

Sister  Jane  suddenly  grew  serious.  "Sue  Flew- 
ellen,  what  can  out-float  trash?" 

Mrs.  Flewellen  gave  up  the  contest  by  chang- 
ing the  subject.  Fortunately  for  my  peace  of 
mind,  none  of  sister  Jane's  acquaintances  took 
her  sharp  comments  seriously.  The  older  ones 
were  inured  to  their  twang  and  flavor,  and  the 
younger  ones  enjoyed  the  humor  that  inspired 
them.  When  wit  and  tenderness  go  into  partner- 
ship in  the  same  mind,  the  product  is  humor. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  to  be  observed  that  as  the  day 
for  the  circus  approached,  sister  Jane  became  more 
and  more  undecided  as  to  whether  she  should  go  or 
stay  away,  and  she  remained  undecided  to  the  last 
moment. 


VIII. 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN. 

The  day  set  for  the  circus  dawned  clear  and 
warm.  There  had  been  a  frost  the  night  before, 
but  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun  drove  it  out 
of  sight  and  out  of  mind.  One  of  the  summer's 
brood  of  mocking-birds  that  had  been  reared  in 
the  garden  was  trying  his  pipes  in  the  big  cedar. 
He  sang  so  low  that,  to  the  unpracticed  ear,  he 
would  have  seemed  to  be  far  away;  but  I  knew 
that  he  was  not  ten  feet  from  my  little  porch. 
He  paused  every  now  and  then  to  listen,  and  well 
he  might,  for,  early  as  it  was,  there  was  a  great 
stir  in  the  village.  The  white  boys  and  negroes 
and  even  some  of  the  white  men  were  running 
about  in  great  excitement,  for  the  circus  had 
arrived  during  the  night,  or  in  the  early  hours 
of  dawn.  Indeed,  even  then  I  could  hear  the 
lumbering  sound  of  heavy  wagons  in  the  road 
behind  the  tavern,  and  when  I  opened  my  door  I 
could  catch  the  whinnying  sound  of  hungry  horses. 
Sallying  forth  after  breakfast  I  could  see,  from 
the  corner  of  the  public  square,  dozens  of  men 
currying  and  rubbing  down  piebald  horses  and 
ponies  —  an  operation  that  was  watched  with  both 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN.  99 

interest  and  awe  by  all  the  urchins  in  the  village, 
white  and  black,  that  were  able  to  get  away  from 
home  at  that  hour.  In  the  big  vacant  lot  behind 
the  tavern  I  could  see  the  tops  of  the  centre -pole 
and  the  smaller  poles,  suggesting  the  illusion  that 
a  big  ship  had  sailed  up  in  the  night  and  cast 
anchor  there. 

Later,  when  I  returned  home,  I  found  a 
stranger  leaning  by  the  gate  in  an  expectant  atti- 
tude. He  was  a  stranger,  but  I  thought  I  had 
seen  him  before,  and  so  I  bowed  pleasantly  as 
I  paused  before  entering.  There  was  a  sullen 
expression  on  his  face,  and  I  thought  I  could 
catch  the  odor  of  rum  about  him,  but  he  bowed 
politely,  and  said :  — 

uEf  this  is  Mr.  Wornum,  I  wish  you'd  tell 
Mandy  Satterlee  that  her  brother  would  like 
mighty  well  to  see  her." 

"Did  you  knock  at  the  door?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  he  replied,  "an'  I  heard  a  shuf- 
flin'  of  feet  in  thar,  but  nobody  ain't  come  to  the 
door.  Jest  tell  Mandy  that  Bud  wants  to  see  her 
an'  tell  her  good-by.  She  '11  know.  She  allers 
useter  call  me  Bud  before"  —  he  paused,  cleared 
his  throat,  and  then  stood  staring  at  the  ground 
and  pulling  nervously  at  the  lappels  of  his  shabby 
coat. 

"Wait  one  moment,"  I  said.  "I'll  send  her 
at  once." 

But  when  I  opened  the  door,  and  went  in  search 
of  Mandy,  I  found  both  her  and  sister  Jane  labor- 


100 


SISTER  JANE. 


ing  under  a  strange  excitement.  Mandy,  white 
as  a  sheet  and  trembling,  was  clinging  to  sister 
Jane  and  begging  her  not  to  go  to  the  door. 
Sister  Jane,  armed  with  the  fire-stick  (a  heavy 
piece  of  metal  weighing  four  or  five  pounds),  and 
as  red  in  the  face  as  Mandy  was  white,  was  wav- 
ing her  weapon  in  the  air,  and  making  an  effort 
to  get  to  the  door. 

"Get  out  of  my  way,  Mandy  Satterlee!"  she 
was  saying.  "If  you  are  afraid  of  the  vagabond, 
I  ain't.  Get  out  of  the  way,  and  let  me  brain 
him  where  he  stands." 

"Tut-tut!  "  I  cried;  "what  does  all  this  mean? 
What  is  the  trouble?" 

Sister  Jane  quieted  down  at  once.  I  think  she 
felt  that  I  was  laughing  in  my  sleeve,  for  she  then 
and  there  told  me  that  the  man  at  her  door  was 
the  very  rascal  and  vagabond  (I  use  her  own  de- 
scriptive epithets)  who  had  brought  Mandy  away 
from  home  and  to  town  that  bitter  cold  night,  and 
left  her  to  freeze  to  death  at  our  door. 

"He  ast  me  to  do  somethin',  and  I  said  I 'd  do 
it,"  said  Mandy,  thinking  the  explanation  would 
stand  for  an  excuse,  "but  when  I  got  to  town  I 
jest  couldn't  do  it,  not  ef  I 'd  'a'  died  for  it." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  him?  "  I  asked. 

"Afeard  of  Bud!"  she  exclaimed.  "Why, 
no  more  'n  I  am  of  ol'  Tommy  Tinkins." 

"Then  go  to  the  door,"  I  said.  "He 's  waiting 
for  you." 

"Go  and  stand  close  by,"  sister  Jane  com- 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN.  101 


manded,  "and  if  the  vagabond  says  a  word  out  of 
the  way,  run  out  and  brain  him." 

To  ease  my  sister's  mind,  I  went  as  far  as  the 
inner  door  of  my  room  and  stood  there.  I  thus 
became  an  eavesdropper  without  intending  it. 
The  outer  door  being  open,  every  word  that  passed 
between  Mandy  and  her  brother  was  conveyed  to 
my  ears  as  distinctly  as  if  I  had  been  standing 
between  the  two. 

"Howdy,  Bud?  How 's  ever'body?  They 
don't  miss  me  much,  I  reckon."  Neither  interest 
nor  concern  could  be  detected  in  Mandy 's  tone, 
and  yet  I  knew  that  her  mind  was  controlled  by 
both. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  brother,  as  I  judged, 
though  I  could  not  see  him,  was  looking  at  the 
sister  carefully,  examining  her  clothes  and  every 
feature  of  her  face. 

"You  look  like  you're  doin'  mighty  well,"  he 
remarked  presently.  "You  ain't  never  comin' 
back  to  the  settlement,  I  reckon?" 

"No,  I  reckon  not.  They  hain't  nobody  out 
there  that  'd  want  to  see  me,  an'  they  's  a  whole 
passel  of  folks  not  so  mighty  fur  from  there  that 
I  don't  want  to  see."  There  was  a  touch  of  sad- 
ness in  Mandy 's  voice,  as  she  said  this. 

"Well,  there  '11  be  one  left  out  thar  when  I 'm 
gone  that  'd  like  to  see  you  mightily,"  remarked 
her  brother. 

"I 'd  like  to  know  who,"  said  Mandy. 

"Jincy." 


102 


SISTER  JANE. 


"Jincy  Meadows?  Well,  the  laws  'a'  massy! 
what  under  the  canopy  does  he  want  to  see  me  for 

—  now?  " 

"Well,"  said  the  brother,  slowly,  "you  know 
how  Jincy  is.  Folks  useter  call  him  quare,  an' 
some  say  now  he 's  a  half-wit  —  one  o'  these  here 
moon-calves  —  but  Jincy 's  been  mighty  good  to 
me  lately.  He  don't  run  into  any  of  his  whimsies 
when  he  talks  to  me.  I  know  right  p'int-blank 
that  he  's  got  more  sense  than  half  the  people  in 
the  county.  He  may  n't  come  to  see  you,  but  ef 
he  does,  don't  give  him  the  back  of  your  hand." 

"Does  he  know?  "  asked  Mandy,  sadly. 

"Who?  Jincy?  He  knows  ever 'thing,  but 
you  'd  never  find  it  out  by  his  common  ever 'day 
talk." 

There  was  a  pause  —  a  longer  pause  than  usual. 
Then  the  brother  said :  — 

"I  jest  drapped  in  to  say  good-by.  I  hope  you 
ain't  got  nothin'  agin'  me,  sis." 

This  was  too  much  for  Mandy.  She  broke 
down.  "Anything  agin'  you,  Bud?  Oh,  me! 
Oh,  me!"  she  sobbed,  "the  shoe's  on  t'other 
foot.  It 's  you  that  oughter  have  ever 'thing  ag'in 
me.  Oh,  me !  Bud,  I 'm  lots  sorrier  for  you 
an'  for  mammy  an'  pap  than  I  am  for  myself. 
They  're  dead  an'  gone,  but,  oh,  me!  I  couldn't 
bear  to  look  at  the'r  graves.    It 'd  kill  me." 

"Don't  cry,  sis,"  said  the  brother.  "The  folks 
in  the  house  '11  hear  you,  an'  think  I 'm  doggin' 
at  you.    Hush,  honey!    Don't  you  be  afeard  but 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN.  103 


what  I  '11  make  that  man  pay  for  it !  "  There  was 
a  ring  of  genuine  passion  in  his  voice.  "I  wanted 
to  kill  him,  an'  I  oughter  'a'  done  it,  but  I  '11  do 
wuss  'n  that.  I  '11  let  him  live  an'  eat  the  bread 
he  's  made  you  an'  me  eat.  You  won't  see  me  no 
more  for  a  mighty  long  time,  but  you  '11  know 
when  that  man  has  been  paid  back.  Great  God, 
sis!  when  I  think  of  mammy  an'  pap  a-lyin'  out 
thar  in  the  woods  "  — 

"But  they  're  not  lyin'  there  on  account  o'  that, 
Bud  —  not  on  account  o'  that!"  cried  Mandy, 
wildly. 

"No,  honey,  not  on  that  account.  But  when 
I  think  of  'em  —  sis,  jest  say  the  word,  an'  I  '11 
go  an'  kill  'im  right  now  an'  come  back  an'  show 
you  his  damned  blood!  It  won't  take  me  ten 
minutes." 

"Oh,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  Bud,  don't  make 
matters  wuss.  They  're  bad  enough  now.  One 
more  tetch,  an'  I 'd  topple  over.  Don't  do  no- 
thin'  wrong,  Bud.  Don't  put  yourself  where  you'll 
be  hunted  down  like  a  wild  creetur.  I'll  git  down 
on  my  knees  to  you,  Bud,  ef  you  '11  only  promise." 

After  a  pause,  the  brother  said:  "Well,  good- 
bye, sis ;  ef  I  live,  you  '11  see  me  ag'in ;  ef  I 
don't,  it  don't  make  no  difference.  I  ain't  no 
good  nohow." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Bud!  please  don't!  Ef 
you  ain't  no  good  it 's  because  of  me.  Oh,  don't 
leave  that  hard  say  in'  a-ringin'  in  my  ears!  " 

All  the  answer  that  Mandy  Satterlee  got  was  a 


104 


SISTEB  JANE. 


short  harsh  laugh.  I  heard  the  gate  slammed 
to,  and  knew  that  the  queer  interview  was  over. 
I  turned  to  go  away,  but  came  near  running  over 
sister  Jane,  who  was  standing  at  my  elbow  listen- 
ing with  all  her  ears. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  cried.  Having 
cooled  off,  she  was  as  practical  as  ever.  "There 
is  no  need  to  break  your  neck  or  to  cripple  me. 
The  man  is  not  after  you." 

There  was,  indeed,  no  need  for  haste  in  the 
matter,  for  Mandy  Satterlee,  instead  of  coming 
into  the  house,  had  gone  to  the  gate,  where  she 
stood  and  watched  her  brother  until  he  was  out  of 
sight.  I  was  so  puzzled  by  some  of  the  remarks 
I  had  heard,  that  I  wanted  to  ask  sister  Jane 
about  them,  but  the  matter  was  an  extremely  deli- 
cate one,  and,  besides,  she  gave  me  no  fitting 
opportunity.  By  the  time  Mandy  came  into  the 
house  we  were  sitting  in  sister  Jane's  room  —  I  '11 
not  say  quietly,  for  my  sister,  whose  temper  had 
already  been  ruffled,  was  giving  me  a  lecture 
about  the  precipitate  way  in  which  I  had  run 
against  her. 

"Where's  Mother's  Precious?"  said  Mandy. 
Lifting  the  baby  in  her  arms,  she  held  it  against 
her  breast  as  she  rocked  to  and  fro,  and  had  what 
sister  Jane  called  "a  good  cry."  Klibs  appeared 
to  appreciate  the  situation,  for  he  patted  his 
mother's  face  gently,  and  held  his  soft  and  rosy 
cheek  against  hers  as  long  as  she  showed  any  signs 
of  grief. 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN. 


105 


"I  declare!"  she  exclaimed,  when  her  tears 
had  spent  themselves;  "Bud  has  got  a  heart  as 
tender  as  any  human  bein'  that  ever  lived  —  a 
good  heart  an'  a  bad  temper." 

"You'd  'a'  better  let  me  gone  out  there  and 
brained  him,"  remarked  sister  Jane,  snappishly. 
" '  Bud, '  as  you  call  him,  will  do  you  some  big 
damage  yet.    You  mark  my  words." 

"  Oh,  no  —  no !  I 'm  the  one  that  ought  to  be 
brained.  I  'm  the  one  that 's  done  the  damage  — 
to  myself  an'  to  ever 'body  else  that 's  kin  to  me." 

Mandy's  tears  were  beginning  to  flow  afresh, 
when  sister  Jane  put  an  end  to  the  scene.  "Put 
that  child  down  or  give  him  to  me,  and  go  and 
see  about  dinner.  The  tavern  bell  will  be  ringing 
directly,  and  we  won't  have  ours  in  the  pot,  much 
less  on  the  table." 

She  spoke  in  a  peremptory  tone,  but  I  knew  that 
she  did  it  to  take  Mandy's  mind  off  her  troubles. 
It  was  effectual,  too,  for  in  less  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  Mandy  could  be  heard,  above  the  rattling 
of  the  pots  and  pans,  singing  an  old  folk  song. 
But  the  song  had  a  peculiarly  plaintive  air,  so 
that  it  must  have  rhymed  with  her  thoughts. 

I  sat  listening  to  the  song,  my  mind  wandering 
back  to  the  days  of  my  youth,  when,  suddenly,  a 
blare  of  trumpets  and  a  clash  of  cymbals  in  the 
street  drowned  both  song  and  memories,,  and  I 
knew  the  parade  of  the  circus  was  going  by.  It 
was  a  brave  sight  for  the  children  and  negroes 
and  for  those  grown  people  who  are  not  accus- 


106 


SISTER  JANE. 


tomed  to  look  below  the  surface  of  things ;  but  to 
me  the  tawdriness  of  the  affair  was  most  manifest 
and  pitiful.  The  men  and  women  strove  in  vain 
to  look  gay.  The  toggery  they  wore  was  faded 
and  tarnished;  the  horses  were  lean  and  jaded; 
the  red  paint  on  the  wagons  had  been  sobered  by 
wind  and  rain;  the  very  plumes  that  waved  so 
proudly  in  the  headstalls  of  the  horses  were  dirty 
and  bedraggled.  There  was  nothing  entrancing 
about  the  affair  but  the  music ;  nothing  gay  but 
the  painted  clown  who  rode  a  diminutive  mule, 
and  even  his  gayety  was  a  matter  of  paint  and 
grimace. 

And  so  the  cheap  procession  passed,  carrying 
with  it  a  surging  crowd  that  had  gathered  in  the 
village  from  all  parts  of  the  county.  I  turned 
away  from  it  with  a  feeling  akin  to  melancholy, 
perceiving  in  a  dim  way  that  the  tawdry  empti- 
ness of  the  thing  bore  some  relation  to  the  social 
parade  which,  however  great  or  small,  passes 
before  the  eyes  of  every  observant  person.  This 
idea  led  me  into  a  reverie  from  which  I  was 
aroused  by  the  laughing  voice  of  Mary  Bullard  in 
conversation  with  sister  Jane.  Presently  I  heard 
them  coming,  and  before  I  could  escape  by  the 
outer  door  of  my  room,  they  were  upon  me. 

"Don't  run,  "William;  we  are  not  ready  to  eat 
you  yet;  we  'd  need  a  sack  of  salt  and  a  week  of 
preparation  for  that,"  said  sister  Jane. 

"Yes;  do  come  back,  Mr.  William,  and  hear 
us  for  our  cause,  as  one  of  your  dear  friends  said 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN.  107 


in  Rome,"  laughed  Mary  Bullard.  "Tell  him  what 
it  is,  please,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  sister  Jane. 

"Oh,  no,  Mary,  that  would  never  do.  Tell 
him  yourself.  He  always  makes  a  wry  face  when 
I  want  him  to  do  anything." 

"Please  don't  look  so  solemn,  Mr.  William," 
cried  Mary  Bullard,  opening  her  beautiful  eyes, 
and  folding  her  white  hands  with  a  pretty  air. 
"It  isn't  much  we  want  him  to  do,  is  it?"  She 
turned  to  sister  Jane  to  confirm  her  statement. 

"It  ain't  anything  at  all,"  placidly  remarked 
her  ally. 

"Shall  I  tell  him?"  she  asked  again  in  a  hesi- 
tating way  that  but  enhanced  her  loveliness.  Re- 
ceiving an  encouraging  nod  from  sister  Jane, 
Mary  went  on:  "It's  this,  Mr.  William  — 
mamma  says  that  I  may  go  to  the  circus  if  you 
and  Miss  Jane  will  go  with  me." 

"But"  — I  began. 

"Please  say  yes,  Mr.  William!"  she  cried, 
coming  closer  and  laying  her  hand  on  my  arm. 
Light  as  the  touch  was,  it  sent  the  blood  mount- 
ing to  my  face,  seeing  which,  she  blushed  also, 
and  turned  and  leaned  against  sister  Jane. 

"I  was  about  to  observe,"  I  stammered,  "that 
it  is  very  curious  "  — 

"Take  a  chair,  Mary,  and  make  yourself  com- 
fortable," said  sister  Jane,  sarcastically.  "Law- 
yer Wornum  is  about  to  make  one  of  his  cele- 
brated speeches  before  the  Jestice  court.  I  wish 
to  goodness  old  Judge  Bowden  was  here!  " 


108 


SISTER  JANE. 


"Now,  I  don't  think  that 's  right,"  cried  Mary, 
protesting,  but  laughing,  too.  "I  know  Mr. 
William  will  say  the  right  word  at  the  right  time. 
He  always  does." 

I  swallowed  my  embarrassment  with  a  gulp. 
"Why,  of  course,  we  will  go  with  you,  Miss 
Mary.  What  need  to  ask  ?  We  were  going  any- 
how." This  last  statement,  I  could  see,  rather 
took  the  edge  off.  There  was  a  change  in  the 
young  lady's  countenance  too  subtle  to  describe. 

"He's  fibbing,"  said  sister  Jane.  "He  never 
had  no  more  idea  of  going  to  that  circus  than  he 
had  of  flying  to  the  moon.  I  wanted  to  go  myself, 
but  I  did  n't  dast  to.  I 'm  mighty  glad  you  come 
running  at  me  with  a  ready-made  excuse." 

"Well,  it's  such  a  little  fib,  we'll  forgive  it," 
remarked  Mary.  "Mamma  kept  putting  me  off, 
but  finally  said  I  could  go  if  Mr.  William  and 
you  would  take  me.  She  never  had  the  slightest 
idea  you  were  going." 

"We  had  no  such  intention,"  said  I,  boldly 
going  back  to  the  truth.  "But  now  I  wouldn't 
miss  it  for  anything." 

Sister  Jane  regarded  me  curiously.  "Why, 
William!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  are  coming  out. 
I  didn't  know  you  had  it  in  you." 

"But  I  knew  it  all  the  while,"  Mary  declared, 
with  such  an  air  of  sincerity  that  I  felt  the  blood 
mounting  to  my  face  again,  and  saw  it  rising  in 
hers. 

"Mamma  didn't  know  I  was  such  a  politician," 


TEE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN.  109 


she  remarked.  "When  I  go  back,  she'll  look 
frightened  and  whisper,  4  what  will  your  father 
say?'  and  I'll  laugh  and  promise  to  tell  papa 
about  it  myself  after  it  is  all  over." 

So  it  was  settled  that  Mary  Bullard,  sister  Jane, 
and  myself  were  to  go  to  the  circus  to  hear  what 
was  to  be  heard  and  see  what  was  to  be  seen. 
We  were  both  ready  when  Mary  Bullard  came 
tripping  down  the  garden  walk.  I  do  not  know 
what  changes  she  had  made  in  her  apparel,  or 
how  the  trick  was  done  —  perhaps  it  was  my  fool- 
ish imagination  —  but  it  seemed  possible  that  she 
had  just  stepped  out  of  fairyland;  a  woman  of 
flesh  and  blood,  and  yet  so  radiantly  beautiful  as 
to  suggest  some  turn  of  magic. 

I  was  afraid  that  I  would  carry  my  awkward- 
ness with  me,  but  Mary  disposed  of  it  in  a  moment. 
When  we  started,  she  placed  her  hand  on  my 
arm,  not  lightly,  but  confidingly,  and  from  that 
moment  I  was  a  new  man,  and  have  never  been 
quite  the  same  since. 

The  circus  was  all  a  dream  to  me.  I  remember 
that  there  was  a  dingy  weather-beaten  tent,  a 
crowd  of  people  standing  outside,  and  inside  a  sea 
of  faces,  with  its  waves  piled  above  one  another, 
row  on  row;  I  remember  that  I  had  to  give  a  firm 
hand  to  Mary  as  we  climbed  upward  to  be  lost  in 
this  sea;  I  remember  a  confusion  of  music,  a 
whirling  panorama  of  horses  and  riders,  a  painted 
clown  who  danced  about  and  caused  the  people  to 
shout  themselves  hoarse;  I  even  remember  sister 


110 


SISTER  JANE. 


Jane's  awful  frown  when  a  woman  in  skirts  that 
hardly  reached  her  knees  came  tripping  forth  and 
was  lifted  to  a  horse's  back.  I  remember  these 
things,  and  I  remember  that  Mary  always  leaned 
a  little  closer  to  me  when  some  daring  or  danger- 
ous feat  was  in  course  of  performance ;  but  beyond 
this  everything  was  vague.  There  was  Mary  Bul- 
lard  sitting  next  me,  leaning  against  me.  That 
was  all  I  knew  or  felt,  but  that  was  enough.  If 
the  whole  affair,  tent,  audience,  horses  —  every- 
thing—  had  been  lifted  in  the  air,  leaving  me 
sitting  there  with  Mary  Bullard,  I  should  have 
been  none  the  wiser  until  Mary  herself  had  called 
my  attention  to  it. 

But  it  was  over  all  too  soon  for  me.  It  seemed 
but  a  few  moments,  before  the  people  began  to 
crowd  towards  the  entrance  of  the  tent. 

"Is  this  all?    Is  the  show  at  an  end?  "  I  cried. 

"Why,  yes,"  replied  Mary.  "Didn't  you  hear 
what  the  man  said  —  that  4  the  afternoon's  per- 
formance is  now  over,  ladies  and  gentlemen,'  and 
that  there  would  be  an  entire  change  of  pro- 
gramme to-night?  " 

"No,  I  did  not,"  I  replied  truthfully,  "I  nei- 
ther saw  the  man  nor  heard  him." 

"I  know  you  didn't  enjoy  it,"  remarked  Mary, 
with  a  little  sigh,  "and  I 'm  sorry." 

"Enjoy  it!  "  I  exclaimed.  "I  haven't  enjoyed 
an  afternoon  so  much  since  —  since  you  were  a 
little  girl." 

She  fixed  upon  me  a  look  that  I  could  not 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN.  Ill 


fathom.  I  knew  not  whether  it  had  doubt  or 
curiosity  behind  it.  Presently  the  color  deepened 
on  her  face,  and  she  turned  her  head  away  to 
watch  the  crowd,  which  was  clambering  and  clat- 
tering down  the  rattle-trap  seats,  and  surging 
toward  the  door.  We  remained  in  our  places 
until  the  people  on  the  rows  below  us  had  made  it 
safe  to  descend. 

"Did  I  hear  you  say  you  enjoyed  it,  William?  " 
asked  sister  Jane.  She  waited  for  no  reply. 
"  Well,  if  you  look  that  glum  when  you  're  enjoy- 
ing yourself,  I  'd  like  to  see  how  you  'd  act  if  you 
had  to  go  to  the  gallows."  At  which  observation 
Mary  Bullard  laughed  until  the  tears  came  into 
her  eyes. 

"I  didn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  I  enjoyed  the 
circus,"  I  explained,  "and  yet  I  have  had  more 
real  enjoyment  to-day  than  I  have  had  since  one 
day  in  May  ten  years  ago." 

"Well,  if  you  're  as  full  of  joy  as  your  famine 
has  been  long,  I  wonder  that  something  or  other 
don't  give  way,"  remarked  sister  Jane,  bluntly. 

Mary  laughed  at  this  so  heartily  that  I  was  not 
surprised  to  see  her  face  grow  red.  As  we  were 
descending  the  rows  of  seats,  she  asked  if  there 
wasn't  a  picnic  on  that  day  in  May  ten  years  ago, 
and  when  I  answered  that  there  was,  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  grew  so  serious  that  I  was  truly 
sorry  I  had  mentioned  the  matter  at  all.  For  on 
that  May  day  ten  years  ago,  she  was  a  little  girl, 
and  she  went  to  the  picnic  under  my  care  and 


112 


SISTER  JAXE. 


protection.  Yet  lier  seriousness  was  only  a  pass- 
ing humor.  In  five  minutes  it  had  disappeared, 
and  was  succeeded  by  a  fit  of  gayety  that  was 
delightful  to  witness;  and  surprising,  too,  for 
I  had  never  seen  her  quite  so  buoyant  since  she 
was  a  romping  girl.  She  made  believe  she  would 
pirouette  in  the  public  street:  she  chaffed  sister 
Jane;  she  chaffed  me;  and  carried  herself  so 
merrily  withal,  and  so  discreetly,  too,  that  I,  who 
knew  she  was  the  loveliest  woman  in  the  world, 
had  never  seen  her  so  lovely  before.  Her  laugh- 
ter was  a  delight  to  the  ear,  as  her  every  move- 
ment was  a  delight  to  the  eye;  her  eyes  shone 
with  an  unwonted  brilliance,  and  the  tenderest 
rose-flush  played  on  her  cheeks. 

Once  in  the  house,  she  began  to  play  all  sorts 
of  kittenish  pranks.  She  pulled  sister  Jane's  ears 
and  then  kissed  her.  She  tossed  Keezes,  much 
to  that  youngster's  delight,  and  then  cuddled  him 
in  her  arms  and  cooed  over  him;  she  seized 
Tommy  Tinkins  by  the  forelegs,  and  made  believe 
he  was  her  partner  in  a  dance ;  she  did  a  hundred 
things  I  had  never  seen,  her  do  since  she  was 
a  child,  each  performance  more  charming  than  the 
last.  Suddenly,  while  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  with  her  white  hand  raised  in  a  pretty 
gesture,  she  became  serious.  The  change  was  so 
unexpected  that  I  involuntarily  glanced  through 
the  windows,  thinking  that  she  had  seen  some 

one.    But  no  one  was  in  si^ht. 

<_> 

"I'm  too  happy!"  she  cried.    "It's  a  bad 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN.  113 


sign.  When  I  am  happy  like  this  something  is 
sure  to  happen." 

"Well,  child,  if  something  or  other  don't  hap- 
pen, we  '11  have  a  mighty  quiet  time  of  it  the  few 
years  we  've  got  to  live,"  remarked  Sister  Jane. 

But,  though  she  was  still  smiling,  and  her  eyes 
still  shining  with  the  joy  she  felt,  she  shook  her 
beautiful  head  wisely.  "It's  a  bad  sign,"  she 
repeated;  "I've  heard  Free  Betsey  say  so;  and  I 
remember  that  when  I  was  coming  home  from 
Philadelphia,  I  was  just  as  happy  as  I  am  now. 
But  after  I  came  home  I  was  miserable." 

"Why,  what  in  the  world  was  the  matter?" 
asked  sister  Jane. 

"Oh,  everything  was  changed." 

"I  don't  see  how  that  could  be,  child,"  persisted 
sister  J ane .    ' 4  What  happened  ?  ' ' 

"Something,"  replied  Mary,  demurely,  almost 
sadly;  "but  what  it  was,  I  wouldn't  tell  for  the 
worid." 

Down  I  came  tumbling  to  the  earth.  I  saw  in 
an  instant,  as  by  a  revelation,  that  she  had  been 
disappointed  in  some  childish  love  affair.  I  felt 
myself  shrunken  and  ugly,  and  older  than  ever. 
But  I  said  nothing.  I  had  intended  to  accompany 
her  home,  dusk  having  fallen,  but  now  I  held  my 
peace.  Something  in  my  face  must  have  told  her 
that  the  lights  had  been  blown  out  in  my  house  of 
cards,  for  she  came  nearer. 

"You  have  given  me  a  happy  day,"  she  said,  — 
"both  of  you.    You  have  put  yourselves  out  for 


114 


SISTER  JANE. 


me ;  but  I  'm  not  going  to  say  4  thanky, '  I  '11  just 
let  you  imagine  how  grateful  I  am.  As  for  you, 
sir,"  she  cried,  with  mock  dignity,  "having  es- 
corted me  to  the  circus,  you  must  now  patch  out 
your  gallantry,  as  Miss  Jane  would  say,  and 
escort  me  as  far  as  my  gate,  if  no  farther." 

"I  expect  I  '11  have  to  go  with  you,"  sister  Jane 
remarked  before  I  could  answer  a  word.  "When 
William  once  settles  down  for  his  nap,  it 's  a 
hard  matter  to  get  him  to  stir." 

This  grim  satire  would  have  amused  me  at 
another  time,  but  I  did  not  relish  it  now.  I  made 
haste  to  place  myself  at  Mary's  disposal,  surprised 
at  so  unusual  a  request,  but  happy  to  grant  it.  I 
took  pains,  however,  not  to  rekindle  the  flaring 
lights  that  had  illuminated  my  poor  little  house  of 
cards  all  the  afternoon. 

So  we  went  together  through  the  garden,  Mary 
leaning  on  my  arm  as  confidently  as  a  child  might 
lean  on  its  father's.  The  pinks  distilled  their 
spices  and  the  roses  shed  their  perfume  for  my 
especial  benefit  that  night,  and  the  constellations 
sparkled  with  unwonted  lustre.  We  said  little, 
for  there  was  nothing  to  say.  At  the  gate  she 
said  good-night  and  went  tripping  up  the  steps. 

I  had  noticed  that  there  was  an  unusual  stir  in 
the  house.  The  servants  were  running  from  room 
to  room  with  lighted  candles,  and  as  I  walked 
toward  home,  there  were  loud  cries  of  alarm.  I 
stopped  still  in  my  tracks,  the  better  to  hear, 
when  I  saw  Mary  come  running  down  the  walk. 


THE  CIRCUS  COMES  TO  TOWN.  115 


I  knew  her  movements,  though  I  could  not  distin- 
guish her  features. 

She  saw  me,  and  gave  one  frightened  sob  as 
she  clutched  me  by  the  arm. 

'  "Oh,  what  shall  I  do?"  she  cried,  though  her 
voice  was  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 

Trembling  from  a  hundred  vague  fears,  I  drew 
her  into  my  arms  and  held  her  so.  I  tried  to 
speak,  but  my  tongue  refused  its  office.  I  could 
only  hold  her  in  my  arms,  and,  with  a  shaking 
hand,  stroke  her  hair  as  I  used  to  do  when  she 
was  a  child. 

"  Freddy  is  lost !  my  poor  little  brother  is  lost ! 
He  can  be  found  nowhere.  The  whole  town  has 
been  searched.  Oh,  to  think  that  he  is  out  in  the 
dark  alone,  and  crying  for  me!  What  shall  I  do? 
Where  shall  I  go?    Oh,  my  poor  little  brother!  " 

Thus  she  moaned,  with  her  head  on  my  shoul- 
der, clinging  to  me  and  shivering.  My  first 
thought  was  of  sister  Jane,  and  to  her  we  went, 
Mary  seeming  to  have  a  revival  of  energy.  I  ran 
fast,  but  she  ran  faster,  and  by  the  time  I  reached 
the  door,  my  sister  had  the  poor  girl  pressed  to 
her  tender  heart,  and  was  getting  such  small  in- 
formation as  she  could  obtain. 

With  sister  Jane,  to  think  was  to  act.  Her 
bonnet  lay  on  the  bed  where  she  had  thrown  it. 
She  seized  it,  dashed  it  on  her  head  recklessly, 
and,  saying  to  Mary  "come!"  sped  out  of  the 
house  and  along  the  garden  walk.  As  for  me,  I 
was  too  much  shocked  to  think,  though  all  the 


116 


SISTER  JANE. 


trifles  I  have  mentioned  seized  hold  of  my  mind 
and  stuck  fast  in  my  memory.  I  fell  rather  than 
sat  on  a  chair,  and  remained  there  supinely. 

Mandy  Satterlee  had  seized  her  baby,  and  held 
it  tightly  to  her  breast,  as  if  by  that  means  she 
would  save  it  from  the  misfortune  that  had  over- 
taken Mary's  little  brother.  She  now  sat  crying 
and  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mandy?  Why  excite 
yourself  in  that  manner?"  I  inquired  with  some 
severity.  Her  grief  seemed  so  entirely  out  of 
proportion  to  her  interest  in  Freddy  Bullard  that 
it  irritated  me. 

"Oh,  that  child!"  she  sobbed.  "That  little 
boy!" 

"You  make  yourself  ridiculous,"  I  said.  "Of 
course  the  child  will  be  found.  It  is  impossible 
that  he  should  be  lost." 

Mandy,  turning  her  streaming  eyes  upon  me, 
raised  her  right  hand  in  a  gesture  that  her  earnest- 
ness made  tragic. 

"That  poor  little  boy  will  never  be  found  in  the 
round  world!  "  she  cried.  "It 's  proned  into  me." 
Her  arm  fell  to  her  side,  and  she  betook  herself 
again  to  her  grief. 


IX. 


A  CHILD  IS  LOST. 

There  was  not  much  sleeping  in  the  village 
that  night.  Each  family  seemed  to  take  the  loss 
home  to  itself.  The  men  —  old  and  young  — 
organized  themselves  into  searching  parties,  while 
the  women  flitted  about  the  streets,  going  from 
house  to  house,  seeking  information,  and  finding 
new  opportunities  and  occasions  for  gossip.  The 
news  seemed  to  spread  over  the  community  as  by 
magic.  The  negroes  were  as  active  as  anybody. 
Old  Sol,  Colonel  Bullard's  carriage  driver,  had 
stirred  them  up  and  was  leading  them.  No  nine 
o'clock  bell  rang  for  them  that  night.  They  went 
running  hither  and  yonder  and  whither  they 
pleased.  The  tramping  of  feet  and  the  sound  of 
men  running  and  of  women  calling  to  each  other 
in  the  dark  came  to  my  ears  from  the  street,  as 
I  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  honeysuckle.  Though 
the  air  was  chill,  and  the  long  wisps  of  clouds 
combed  out  by  the  wind  gave  token  of  dampness, 
the  signs  went  unheeded  so  far  as  I  was  concerned. 

What  struck  me  as  most  peculiar  —  ominous, 
indeed  —  was  the  tone  in  which  the  people  passing 


118 


SISTER  JANE. 


by,  especially  the  women,  spoke  of  the  lost  child. 
"He  was  such  a  bright  little  boy."  "So  full  of 
life  and  fun."  "He  would  have  been  five  years 
old  next  August."  "It  was  so  sudden  —  like  a 
clap  of  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky."  I  remem- 
bered with  a  shiver  that  many  and  many  a  time 
I  had  heard  people  talk  so  of  the  dead.  And 
then  the  prophecy  of  Mandy  Satterlee  crept  back 
into  my  mind  (from  which  I  had  ousted  it),  and 
remained  there. 

After  a  while  I  heard  sister  Jane  coming  along 
the  garden  walk,  and  I  joined  her  in  the  house, 
where  Mandy  Satterlee  was  still  sitting,  having 
now  recovered  from  her  hysterical  burst  of  grief. 
There  was  no  information  in  sister  Jane's  eyes, 
and  so  I  forbore  to  question  her.  She  called 
Mandy  to  a  consultation  in  the  kitchen  as  soon  as 
Klibs  could  be  tucked  under  cover,  and  they 
remained  there  some  minutes.  As  they  came 
back  I  heard  sister  Jane  say  solemnly :  — 

"It 's  the  Providence  of  God,  Mandy,"  and  this 
terse  remark  struck  deeper  into  my  mind  than 
many  a  sermon  has  done.  Truly,  it  was  the 
Providence  of  God.  Whether  the  little  fellow 
was  dead  or  alive,  or  safe,  to  be  returned  to  his 
friends,  or  fated  to  be  lost  to  them  until  dooms- 
day, he  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Almighty. 

In  a  measure  quieted  by  these  reflections,  I 
seized  my  hat  and  walked  along  the  street  toward 
Colonel  Bullard's  home.  A  large  crowd  had 
assembled  in  the  pillared  portico,  all  friends  and 


A  CHILD  IS  LOST. 


119 


all  sympathetic.  Midway  down  the  flight  of  steps 
that  led  from  the  street  to  the  door,  I  saw  Mary 
Bullard  standing.  She  held  a  lighted  lanthorn  in 
her  hand,  and  seemed  to  be  expecting  some  one  to 
join  her. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,"  she  said,  as  I  went 
forward.  She  ran  down  the  steps  and  for  the 
fourth  time  that  day  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Waiting  for  me?"  I  asked,  taking  the  lan- 
thorn. There  was  no  surprise  in  either  my  voice 
or  my  mind.  I  made  the  inquiry  to  make  sure 
that  my  ears  had  not  deceived  me. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  simply,  and  I  was  satisfied. 
It  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
that  she  should  be  standing  there  waiting  for  me 
with  the  lanthorn  in  her  hand.  By  some  strange 
conceit  or  delusion  of  the  mind,  the  incident  was 
as  old  and  as  familiar  to  my  experience  the 
moment  it  happened  as  if  it  had  occurred  at  the 
very  threshold  and  beginning  of  my  life,  and 
found  a  thousand  repetitions  since. 

I  turned  to  the  impulse  of  her  movements,  and 
we  went  towards  the  public  square.  In  a  few 
moments  I  found  that  we  were  going  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  circus.  For  an  instant  —  a  bare  instant 
—  the  idea  that  Mary  was  distraught  by  reason  of 
her  grief  took  possession  of  me;  took  possession 
of  me  and  shook  me  as  no  thought  ever  did  before 
or  ever  will  again.  Some  symptom  of  it  must  have 
been  conveyed  to  her,  for  she  leaned  more  heavily 
on  my  arm. 


120 


SISTER  JANE. 


"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

For  answer  I  lifted  the  lanthorn  and  looked 
into  her  face.  She  smiled  ever  so  faintly  and 
turned  her  head  away.  Her  face  was  pale,  in- 
deed, but,  thank  God,  reason  and  intelligence 
shone  above  grief  in  her  sad  eyes. 

"Don't,"  she  said.  "I'll  not  bear  inspection 
to-night." 

I  made  no  reply,  not  even  by  way  of  apology, 
but  the  consternation  that  had  seized  me  passed 
away  as  a  noxious  vapor  before  the  morning  sun. 

The  night  was  not  yet  old,  and  the  show  under 
the  dingy  tent  was  still  in  full  blast.  The  music 
of  the  band  flung  sweetly  over  the  uproar  made 
now  and  then  by  the  motley  crowd;  and,  as  we 
drew  near,  the  hundreds  of  lights  that  were  set  in 
a  circle  around  the  centre  pole  gave  a  brilliant 
effect  that  could  be  seen  from  the  outside,  where 
groups  of  whites  and  negroes  stood,  —  the  unfortu- 
nates who  were  too  poor  or  too  economical  to  pay 
the  admission  fee.  Through  these  groups  we  went, 
inquiring  if  they  had  seen  anything  of  the  child. 

Business  was  over  for  the  man  who  stood  at 
the  entrance  of  the  tent,  and  he  was  now  taking 
his  ease  in  a  chair,  his  feet  flung  over  one  of  the 
ropes.  He  rose  as  we  approached,  and  regarded 
us  with  a  stare  in  which  there  was  more  amaze- 
ment than  respect.  I  was  for  paying  the  fee,  but 
Mary  stopped  me  by  a  gesture. 

"I  am  hunting  for  my  little  brother,"  she  said. 
"He  has  been  missing  since  this  afternoon." 


A  CHILD  IS  LOST. 


121 


"Mercy!  that's  bad!"  said  the  man,  taking 
off  his  hat.  He  raised  his  hand,  and  some  one 
who  was  lounging  near  came  running  forward. 
"Tell  Dorkins  to  come  here." 

The  messenger  darted  away,  and  in  half  a 
minute  Dorkins  came  running.  "What  is  it, 
sir  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Show  this  lady  and  gentleman  through  the 
tent.  A  child  has  been  lost.  What  is  the  name, 
ma'am?  Bullard!  Not  Colonel  Bullard?  Well, 
bless  my  stars !  Wait,  Dorkins.  You  stay  here. 
Come  with  me,  ma'am." 

We  went  inside,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  multitude  were  fastened  on  us 
—  Mary,  with  her  beautiful  hair  falling  about  her 
shoulders,  and  I  with  the  lan thorn,  which  looked 
dim  indeed  in  all  the  glaring  light.  Major  Fam- 
brough,  who  was  a  prominent  politician  and  who 
was  therefore  always  looking  for  an  opportunity 
to  make  himself  conspicuous,  saw  us  at  once,  and 
was  quick  to  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  some- 
thing serious  had  occurred. 

"Unless  you  are  out  hunting  for  an  honest 
man,  Wornum,  something  is  wrong,"  he  said, 
touching  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  taking  his  hat 
off  to  Mary.     "What  is  it?" 

"My  little  brother  is  lost,"  replied  Mary. 

"Lost!  Why,  you  amaze  me!"  cried  the 
major.  He  tried  hard  to  wear  a  look  of  concern, 
but  the  man's  eyes  fairly  sparkled,  and  I  soon 
saw  the  reason  why.    "We'll  see  what  can  be 


122 


SISTER  JANE. 


done,"  he  said,  and,  walking  into  the  middle  of 
the  ring,  which  was  vacant  just  then,  he  raised 
his  hand  to  command  attention. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  began,  "  a  great 
calamity  has  befallen  our  little  community." 
("Take  him  out!"  some  one  cried.  "Bring  in 
the  muel,  and  let  him  ride!"  yelled  some  one 
else.)  "If  my  political  opponents  desire  to  ridi- 
cule me,"  the  major  went  on,  "they  should  wait 
for  the  proper  time  and  opportunity.  At  present 
I  desire  to  announce  that  the  family  of  our  re- 
spected fellow-townsman,  Colonel  Cephas  Bullard, 
have  suffered  a  severe  affliction.  Little  Freddy 
Bullard  is  lost  and  cannot  be  found.  If  my 
opponents  desire  to  make  capital  out  of  that,  they 
are  welcome  to  do  so." 

There  were  sympathetic  exclamations  from  the 
crowd,  and  a  great  many  people  began  to  leave 
their  seats,  but  I  felt  that  Major  Fambrough  had 
made  a  miserable  spectacle  of  himself.  My 
cheeks  burned  with  the  shame  that  he  was  a 
stranger  to. 

The  man  who  had  constituted  himself  our  guide 
laughed  softly.  "If  we  had  that  chap  in  the  side- 
show," he  said,  "he 'd  draw  the  crowds." 

He  led  us  through  the  big  tent  into  the  dress- 
ing-room. The  painted  clown  was  sitting  on  a 
coil  of  rope  reading  a  letter  by  the  light  of  a 
candle  he  held  in  one  hand.  Other  men  were 
leaning  about  with  heavy  overcoats  flung  over 
their  thin  costumes.   A  woman,  in  short  and  fluffy 


♦ 


A  CHILD  IS  LOST. 


123 


skirts,  was  trying  to  pin  a  rent  in  her  bespangled 
waist,  and  she  was  the  first  to  see  us.  She  drew 
back  with  an  exclamation,  snatched  a  cloak  from 
a  stool,  and  held  it  before  her.  Through  the 
hideous  rouge  on  her  face  I  could  see  her  blushes. 
To  her  Mary  went  straight. 

"My  little  brother  is  lost,"  she  said.  "We 
are  trying  to  find  him." 

"Ah!"  the  rouged  woman  exclaimed,  turning 
to  the  rest,  "her  little  brother  is  lost." 

If  I  ever  saw  sympathy  and  pity  depicted  on 
the  human  countenance,  I  saw  it  on  that  woman's 
face  —  and  on  the  faces  of  the  others.  Somehow 
they  all  seemed  to  remember  that  they  had  homes, 
and  when  we  turned  away,  I  noticed  that  the 
woman  was  crying,  and  that  the  clown,  who,  on 
a  near  view,  had  an  old  and  a  wizened  look,  had 
clenched  his  hand  and  crumpled  his  letter  until  it 
bore  small  semblance  to  a  written  page. 

Meanwhile  the  man  who  had  come  with  us 
through  the  tent  sent  his  men  in  every  direction 
with  orders  to  search  for  the  child ;  but  they  all 
returned  with  the  same  story.  Mary  thanked 
them  all,  placed  her  hand  on  my  arm  again,  and 
we  went  home,  the  man  going  a  part  of  the  way 
with  us,  and  giving  us  the  comfort  of  such  hope 
as  experience  and  self-possession  can  impart.  At 
the  last  he  promised  that  if  he  found  the  child  the 
next  day,  or  heard  any  tidings  of  it,  he  would 
mount  a  messenger  on  one  of  his  best  horses,  and 
send  us  word.    I  joined  my  thanks  to  Mary's. 


124 


SISTER  JANE. 


"Don't  thank  me,"  he  said  to  Mary.  "I  have 
a  special  reason  for  doing  whatever  I  can  —  a 
very  special  reason."  With  that  he  laughed 
softly  to  himself,  bowed,  and  was  gone.  At  an- 
other time  I  would  have  regarded  this  as  a  very 
neat  compliment  to  Mary,  but  now  I  felt  that  the 
stranger  was  under  some  obligation  to  Colonel 
Bullard.  I  suggested  this  to  Mary,  who  replied 
with  a  sigh:  "I  shouldn't  wonder.  Father  is 
always  helping  somebody,  or  doing  good  some- 
where." 

So  we  went  back  home  unsuccessful,  but  Mary 
was  better  satisfied.  She  had  done  something 
that  nobody  else  had  thought  of,  and  her  mind 
was  more  at  ease.  I  would  have  carried  her  to 
see  sister  Jane,  but  she  insisted  on  going  straight 
home. 

"Good-night,"  she  said  at  the  steps  —  the  por- 
tico above  was  still  crowded  with  people  who  were 
as  heavily  charged  with  curiosity  as  with  sympa- 
thy—  "good-night.  This  has  been  the  happiest 
and  most  miserable  day  of  my  life ;  and  you  have 
been  so  kind  and  thoughtful  through  it  all." 

I  murmured  something  in  reply,  watched  her  as 
she  went  slowly  up  the  wide  steps,  and  then  turned 
and  went  home.  There  I  found  Mrs.  Beshears, 
who,  on  account  of  the  excitement  in  the  village, 
had  remained  longer  than  usual.  Sister  Jane  was 
sitting  where  she  always  sat,  Mrs.  Beshears  was 
in  her  corner,  Mandy  Satterlee  was  rocking  her 
baby,  and  Tommy  Tinkins  was  stretched  out  on 


A  CHILD  IS  LOST. 


125 


the  hearth-rug ;  everything  was  in  its  usual  place ; 
and  yet  I  felt  that  there  had  been  a  change  —  a 
tremendous  change.  The  idea  was  so  strong  in 
my  mind  that  I  paused  on  entering  the  room  and 
looked  around ;  and  it  was  not  until  months  after- 
wards that  I  discovered  the  change  was  in  me  and 
not  in  my  surroundings. 

"For  mercy's  sake,  William,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter?" said  sister  Jane.  "You  look  as  if  you've 
been  bewitched."  I  suppose  something  queer  in 
my  attitude  or  in  my  countenance  must  have 
attracted  her  attention,  for  she  had  a  quick  eye 
for  such  things.  "Where  've  you  been  gallantin' 
to?" 

I  related  as  briefly  as  possible  what  has  been 
set  down  here,  not  omitting  a  description  of  Major 
Fambrough's  oration  at  the  circus.  This  last 
seemed  to  be  most  interesting  of  all,  for  both 
sister  Jane  and  Mrs.  Beshears  laughed  until  the 
tears  came  in  their  eyes. 

"It's  a  livin'  wonder,"  remarked  Mrs.  Be- 
shears, "that  that  man  ain't  been  elected  to  some 
big  office  too  long  ago  to  talk  about." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  sister  Jane.  "He's  a  big 
enough  fool  to  go  to  the  legislature.  The  lunatic 
asylum  ain't  so  mighty  far  from  the  state  house. 
They  tell  me  you  can  stand  on  the  roof  of  one  and 
fling  a  rock  on  top  of  t'other." 

Then  they  fell  to  discussing  the  sensation  of  the 
day,  which  was  the  disappearance  of  little  Freddy 
Bullard.    My  theory  was  that  he  would  be  found 


126 


SISTER  JANE. 


to-morrow,  and  it  was  a  theory  that  lasted  through 
many  long  days.  For  if  the  child  had  been  taken 
up  into  the  clouds,  or  if  the  earth  had  opened  and 
swallowed  him,  his  disappearance  could  not  have 
been  more  complete  or  more  mysterious. 

The  search  was  continued  for  weeks,  and  was 
extended  to  the  neighboring  counties.  All  the 
wells  were  examined,  all  the  ponds  and  streams 
for  miles  around  were  dragged,  and  the  circus  was 
followed  and  watched  by  two  or  three  young  men 
who  had  been  paying  Mary  Bullard  some  atten- 
tion. But  all  to  no  purpose.  The  child  was  not 
to  be  found;  and  so,  in  the  ^course  of  time,  the 
village  went  about  its  business  in  the  usual  way, 
and  the  disappearance  of  Freddy  Bullard  became 
a  story  to  frighten  children  with. 

Even  the  fortitude  with  which  Colonel  Bullard 
bore  the  burden  of  his  grief  ceased  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  remark.  He  seemed  to  accept  it  as  his 
share  of  the  misfortunes  which  come  to  the  sons 
of  men,  and  continued  to  go  up  and  down  as 
usual,  winning  the  sympathy  of  the  thoughtful 
and  retaining  the  respect  of  all  his  fellow-citizens. 

The  event  wrought  a  change  in  Mary,  though 
I  knew  not  whether  it  was  visible  to  any  eyes  but 
mine.  I  can  only  vaguely  describe  it  by  saying 
that  she  grew  more  womanly,  more  gracious,  and 
more  charming.  To  me  she  had  always  been 
charming  and  gracious,  but  now  these  qualities 
took  (or  seemed  to  take)  new  lustre  from  her  grief. 
And  when  her  grief  had  subsided  into  sorrow,  as 


A  CHILD  IS  LOST. 


127 


it  must  do  in  the  most  faithful  hearts  as  time  goes 
on,  her  pensiveness,  whether  it  shone  through  her 
smiles  or  took  the  shape  of  gentle  melancholy,  was 
as  sweet  and  as  touching  as  the  notes  of  some  old 
melody  fluttering  through  the  dusk  from  a  far-off 
flute. 

I  saw  with  much  satisfaction  that  the  half  dozen 
young  men  who  had  striven  hard  to  make  them- 
selves agreeable  to  Mary  gradually  ceased  their 
visits.  They  withdrew  by  degrees,  and  sullenly 
(or  so  it  seemed  to  me),  as  if  they  were  loath  to 
acknowledge  that  they  had  failed  to  make  an 
impression.  My  satisfaction  at  their  evident  dis- 
composure did  not  spring  from  envy.  God  knows, 
I  never  had  that  feeling.  I  should  have  been 
gratified  if  Mary's  innocent  heart  had  found  ref- 
uge in  the  love  of  some  man,  standing  high  above 
his  fellows  —  a  man  among  men  in  gifts  and  posi- 
tion —  a  man  entirely  worthy  of  her.  But  where 
was  such  a  man  to  be  found? 

The  young  men  I  have  mentioned  were  clever 
enough,  as  cleverness  goes.  They  were  blessed 
with  this  world's  goods;  they  belonged  to  the 
first  families;  and  they  were  regarded  as  "good 
catches"  by  the  mothers  of  marriageable  daugh- 
ters in  all  the  counties  round  about.  So  much  so 
that  I  often  shuddered  at  the  thought  that  Mary 
(a  mere  child  from  my  point  of  view)  might  be 
thoughtless  enough  to  have  her  head  turned  by 
the  flattery  of  their  attentions.  But  I  did  her 
rank  injustice  in  my  thoughts.    She  was  ever 


128 


SISTER  JANE. 


above  the  small  vanities  that  belong  to  youth  and 
her  sex,  and  the  larger  ones  she  never  so  much 
as  dreamed  of.  Her  motives  were  open  as  the 
day.  She  was  the  embodiment  of  truth  and  in- 
nocence, and  neither  vanity  nor  the  pride  that 
consumes  had  any  part  in  her  nature.  She  was 
as  gracious  to  the  humblest  as  she  was  to  the 
highest.  Her  consideration  could  skim  the  sur- 
face of  the  earth  as  easily  as  it  could  soar  above 
the  heights. 

As  I  have  said,  life  in  the  village  soon  dropped 
into  the  old  uneventful  channels.  It  seemed  that 
nothing  could  reach  the  stature  of  an  event  after 
the  episode  I  have  tried  to  describe.  All  things 
dwindled  and  shrunk  by  comparison.  And  yet 
the  doubt  besets  me  that  I  have  failed  to  picture 
forth  the  shock  that  was  given  to  the  whole  com- 
munity. Looking  back  over  these  pages  the  affair 
seems  tame  and  spiritless. 

Let  me  say  here,  while  the  opportunity  is  ripe, 
that  this  and  other  episodes  to  be  told  of  are  not 
to  be  judged  by  the  narrative  alone.  There  are 
gaps  and  lapses  the  reader  must  fill  out  for  him- 
self. The  knack  of  narration  belongs  to  the 
gifted  few,  who  need  neither  art  nor  practice  to 
fit  them  for  the  work.  With  me,  all  is  lacking. 
When  the  impressive  moment  arrives  the  apt  and 
trenchant  word  eludes  me.  The  sparkling  phrase, 
the  vivid  grouping,  and  the  illumination  that 
flashes  the  whole  scene  upon  the  mind,  are  want- 


A  CHILD  IS  LOST. 


129 


ing.  I  have  tried  to  give  the  crude  outline  only, 
leaving  the  imagination  of  the  reader  to  inject 
into  it  the  elements  necessary  to  impart  a  pleasure 
and  a  satisfaction  that  my  poor  gifts  could  never 
convey. 


X. 


FREE  BETSEY  RUNS  THE  CARDS. 

The  name  of  Free  Betsey  has  been  mentioned 
somewhere  in  the  preceding  pages.  I  was  better 
acquainted  with  her  reputation  than  with  her  per- 
sonality, but  I  knew  her  when  I  saw  her,  as,  in- 
deed, everybody  in  this  section  did.  She  struck 
me  as  a  queer  mixture  of  humility,  audacity,  and 
cunning.  She  told  fortunes  by  cards,  carrying  a 
greasy  pack  with  her  for  that  purpose,  and  she 
sold  ginger-cakes  on  public  days  and  during  court- 
week,  eking  out  in  this  way  a  living  that  served 
her  purposes  well  enough. 

Free  Betsey  and  I  came  to  a  closer  acquaintance 
in  a  very  curious  way.  During  the  early  winter 
it  was  my  habit  to  take  long  walks  in  the  woods, 
frequently  going  far  beyond  the  town  branch  — 
a  small  stream  that  was  a  mile  from  the  court- 
house. Happily,  I  never  found  it  necessary  to 
walk  in  the  public  highway.  Through  the  big 
woods  and  fields  in  all  directions  numerous  by- 
paths ran  —  paths  that  had  been  made  first  by  the 
Indians  and  wild  beasts  and  were  afterwards  fre- 
quented by  the  negroes  and  cattle.  They  wound 
about,  crossing  one  another,  and  frequently  formed 
a  labyrinth  interesting  to  work  out. 


FREE  BETSEY  RUNS  THE  CARDS.  131 

On  one  occasion,  while  following  one  of  these 
paths  that  led  me  in  a  direction  I  had  never  trav- 
eled before,  I  suddenly  saw  Free  Betsey  walking 
ahead  of  me.  The  woods  were  not  thick,  and  the 
path  was  straight  and  open,  so  much  so,  that  the 
sudden  appearance  of  Free  Betsey  where  I  had 
seen  no  one  a  moment  before  set  me  to  wondering. 
Cover  and  hide  as  we  will,  our  learning  and  cul- 
ture have  not  struck  deep  enough  to  remove  the 
dregs  of  superstition.  These  seem  to  have  settled 
at  the  very  bottom  of  our  natures,  as  it  were,  and 
resist  all  the  processes  of  enlightenment ;  so  that 
whatever  comes  upon  us  refusing  to  submit  to  plau- 
sible explanation  is  like  to  send  a  cold  chill  along 
the  marrow  of  the  spine. 

I  had  some  such  feeling  as  that  when  Free 
Betsey  took  shape  in  the  path  before  me,  congeal- 
ing (as  it  seemed)  out  of  the  vapors  of  the  forest. 
I  knew  it  was  Free  Betsey  by  her  antics.  She 
bowed  and  curtsied  to  imaginary  people  as  she 
went  along,  such  was  her  seeming  humility.  It 
was  "Howdy,  mars'er,"  —  "howdy,  missis,"  — 
howdy,  trees,  —  howdy,  ground,  —  howdy,  sky, 
—  howdy,  everybody  that  lives,  —  and  howdy 
everything  that  creeps,  or  crawls  or  exists  —  bow- 
ing here,  bowing  there,  to  the  left  and  to  the 
right,  and  dropping  low  curtsies  to  all.  A  more 
uncanny  figure  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find. 
I  could  hear  her  talking  to  herself  as  she  bowed 
and  waved  her  hands,  for  though  I  had  slackened 
my  pace  to  avoid  overtaking  her,  and  she  seemed 


132 


SISTER  JANE. 


to  be  going  as  rapidly  as  ever,  I  drew  nearer 
and  nearer.  Not  content  with  her  bowing  and 
curtsying,  she  broke  into  a  song  with  this  queer 
refrain :  — 

"  Man  come  to  my  house  —  it's  howdy,  oh,  howdy  ! 
Man  come  to  my  house  —  oh,  it's  howdy,  howdy  do  !  " 

This  over,  she  shook  her  head  and  laughed 
shrilly,  and  then  suddenly  sat  squat  on  the  ground, 
and  fell  to  making  marks  in  the  path  with  her 
forefinger. 

"Ah-yi!  I  been  waitin'  fer  you,  Mars'er 
Willyum —  waitin'  long  time.  Squinch-owl  say 
4  he  comin'  ' — he  no  come.  Whip 'will  say  '  he 
comin' ' — he  no  come.  Blue  jay  say,  'day! 
day! '  —  he  come." 

"Waiting  for  me!"  I  exclaimed,  looking  at 
her  in  some  astonishment.  Age  had  taken  the 
plumpness  from  her  face,  but  her  eyes  shone  like 
those  of  some  wild  animal. 

"Yasser  —  yasser!  "  she  cried,  rising  nimbly  to 
her  feet.  "Waitin'  long  time,  an'  you  come. 
Waitin'  in  de  woods,  an'  you  come.  My  house 
yander  —  on  de  hill  dere."  She  walked  along  the 
path  and  I' followed.  "What  you  done  wid  my 
young  mistis  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"Your  young  mistress?" 

"Eh -heh !  De  gal  what  you  pull  fum  de  snow. 
Whar  she  been  gone  dis  long  time?  I  look  fer 
see  her  —  I  no  see  her." 

"Do  you  mean  Mandy^atterlee? "  I  inquired. 

"Eh-heh!    Yasser!    Dat  ve'y  gal.    She  my 


FREE  BETSEY  RUNS  THE  CARDS.  133 

young  mistiss.  Hit  come  like  dis:  I  b'long'ded 
to  her  ma's  pa,  an'  he  sot  me  free:  yasser,  he  gi' 
me  my  papers.  I  ain't  no  Myrick  nigger;  no, 
suh!  My  ole  man,  he's  a  Myrick  nigger,  but  dat 
ain't  no  bindin'  reason  fer  me  ter  be  a  Myrick 
nigger.  No,  suh !  My  mars'er  ain't  set  back  an 
hire  his  niggers  out  to  Tom,  Dick,  an'  Harry. 
He  got  up  fo'  day  wid  urn.,  an'  worked  um.  Dey 
had  ter  arn  der  livin',  but  dey  got  it  atter  dey 
arned  it.  I'm  a  Bowden  nigger,  myse'f.  Ole 
Gabe  Bowden  wuz  my  mars'er,  an'  ole  Gabe 
Bowden  sot  me  free,  an  ole  Gabe  Bowden  wuz  de 
grandaddy  er  Mandy  Satterlee,  an'  I  bless  God 
eve'y  day  an'  eve'y  night  dat  ole  Gabe  Bowden 
done  dead  an'  gone  ter  heav'm  whar  he  b'longded 
at.    Dead  —  dead !    Yasser  —  dead !  " 

While  she  was  pouring  forth  this  volume  of 
speech,  she  was  walking  along  in  the  path  ahead 
of  me,  waving  her  arms  and  shaking  her  head, 
and  occasionally  looking  around  to  see  whether  I 
was  following.  I  remembered,  of  course,  that 
Gabe  Bowden  —  the  name  was  spelt  Bowdoin  on 
the  records  of  the  court  —  was  Mandy  Satterlee's 
grandfather,  that  his  daughter  had  eloped  with 
Satterlee,  and  that  her  disobedience  in  this  matter 
gave  him  a  blow  from  which  he  never  fully  recov- 
ered. He  died  not  more  than  a  year  after  his 
disappointment,  and  his  daughter  died  the  year 
following,  having  in  the  meantime  given  birth  to 
a  son  and  daughter.  The  family  seemed  to  be 
pursued  by  a  storm  of  disasters. 


134 


SISTER  JANE. 


In  a  few  moments  we  came  to  Free  Betsey's 
house,  which  was  built  on  lancf  owned  by  Mrs. 
Beshears  and  her  sisters.  The  woman  asked  me 
in,  and  placed  a  chair  for  me.  It  was  a  stout  log 
cabin,  of  one  room,  and  everything  about  it  was 
neat  as  a  pin.  Even  the  hearth,  which  would 
otherwise  have  presented  an  unseemly  appear- 
ance (being  made  of  rough  stones)  was  glossed 
and  veneered  by  a  coat  of  red  clay,  smoothly  laid 
on.  The  cooking-things  were  clean,  and  the  tin 
cups  and  pans  shone  as  if  they  had  been  freshly 
burnished.  A  white  counterpane  was  spread  over 
the  bed,  and  the  valances  were  frilled  and  fluted 
quite  in  the  style.  I  wondered  at  this,  for  there 
was  nothing  in  Free  Betsey's  appearance  to  indi- 
cate a  love  of  order  and  neatness.  She  must  have 
followed  my  thoughts,  for  she  said,  as  she  seated 
herself  on  the  door-sill :  — 

"Don't  git  skeer'd  'bout  ole  Betsey,  suh.  I 
wuz  raise  in  de  white  folks'  house.  Dat  ar  coun- 
terpane dar  older  dan  what  you  is  —  dat  ar  skillet 
older  dan  Sally  Beshears  —  dat  ar  trivet  was 
brung  fum  Ferginny  'fo'  de  white  folks  an'  de 
tories  fell  out  an'  fit.  Ne'r  min'  'bout  dat. 
Whar  Mandy  Satterlee?  Whar  my  young  mis- 
tiss  at?" 

"At  our  house,"  I  replied. 

"What  she  doin'  dar?" 

"Well,  she  is  doing  what  she  wants  to  do  — 
cooking  and  helping  around." 

"Ah-hah!  "  cried  Free  Betsey.    "I  know'd  it. 


FREE  BETSEY  RUNS  THE  CARDS. 


135 


She's  dar  playin'  de  nigger!  Oh,  dey  can't  fool 
me  —  dey  des  can't  do  it!  She  's  dar  playin'  de 
nigger!  Why  n't  she  go  'way  fum  dar?  What 
she  want  ter  stay  dar  playin'  de  nigger  fer?" 

Age  and  the  pretense  of  humility  gave  Free 
Betsey  privileges  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of 
pushing  to  their  utmost  limit.  So  I  replied  by 
asking  a  question :  — 

"Where  should  she  go?  " 

"She  kin  come  yer  —  right  yer  in  dis  ve'y 
house!  "  exclaimed  Free  Betsey,  striking  the  floor 
with  her  clenched  fist.  "What  gwine  ter  hender 
her?  Oh,  you  nee'n'ter  to  be  lookin'  'roun',"  she 
went  on,  catching  the  glance  of  my  eye.  "Dat 
ar  bed  dar  ain't  never  been  slep'  on  by  no  white 
folks,  much  less  a  nigger.  Dat  ar  counterpin', 
an'  dat  quilt,  an'  dem  ar  sheets  ain'  never  kiver'd 
no  livin'  human  'ceptin'  ole  Gabe  Bowden.  Look 
at  dis! "  She  rose,  went  to  the  bed,  lifted  a  side 
of  the  valance,  and  exposed  to  view  a  trundle  bed. 
"Dat  whar  I  sleep  at.  What  I  keep  dis  house 
clean  fer?  Fer  me?  Naw!  What  I  keep  dat 
bed  fer  ?  Fer  me  ?  Naw !  What  I  keep  fire  on 
de  ha'th  fer?  Fer  me?  Bless  God,  naw!  What 
I  want  wid  um?    What  I  gwine  do  wid  urn?" 

Gradually,  as  her  meaning,  which  had  been 
doubtful  at  first,  dawned  on  me  slowly,  and  yet 
surely,  admiration  for  the  negro  crept  into  my 
mind  and  remained  there. 

"Tell  me  dat,"  she  went  on,  growing  more 
earnest.    "What  I  gwine  do  wid  all  dis?  What 


136 


SISTER  JANE. 


I  gwine  do  wid  it?  How  come  Mandy  Satterlee 
don't  stop  playin'  nigger  at  yo'  house,  an'  come 
ter  dis  house,  whar  dey  's  a  nigger  waitin'  fer  her 
—  a  nigger,  an'  a  monstus  good  un,  ef  I  does  say 
itmyse'f?  Now  tell  me  dat!  Ain't  I  gone  an' 
nuss'd  her  when  she  wuz  a  baby,  an'  hilt  her  in 
my  arms,  an'  sot  dar  huggin'  her  whiles  ol'  Sat- 
terlee wuz  cussin'  an'  'busin'  me  'cause  I  wuz  a 
free  nigger?  Ef  dey  ever  wuz  a  hellian  he  wuz 
one!"  she  cried  in  a  burst  of  passion.  "Ef 
you  '11  put  yo'  pillow  over  yo'  head  at  night  des' 
fo'  you  go  ter  sleep  an'  when  eve 'y thing  is  still, 
you  kin  hear  'im  holler  in  Torment.  I  does  dat 
away  eve'y  night,  an'  it  makes  me  laugh  when  I 
hear  ole  Satterlee  holler  in  Torments" 

Free  Betsey  paused  to  take  breath,  tore  a  frag- 
ment of  bark  from  one  of  the  pine  logs  and  began 
to  pick  it  to  pieces.  Presently,  with  a  cry  of  dis- 
gust and  hatred,  she  flung  it  from  her. 

"Satterlee!"  she  breathed  the  name  with  a 
hiss.  "Dey 's  pizen  in  de  blood!  Look  at  Mandy 
Satterlee !  Look  what  de  pizen  has  brung  her  to ! 
Playin'  nigger !  Ef  dey  's  any  salvation  in  dis  worl' 
fer  her,  de  Bowden  blood  '11  save  her.  I  dunner 
how  it  gwine  ter  be  when  she  die.  Ef  she  's  got 
one  drap  mo'  er  de  Satterlee  blood  dan  what  she  's 
got  er  de  Bowden  blood, de  angels  can't  save  her." 

Free  Betsey  paused  again,  and  regarded  me  so 
earnestly  that  I  felt  uncomfortable. 

"How  do  she  do?  Do  she  cry  an'  take  on? 
Do  she  do  like  her  sperret  done  broke?  " 


FREE  BETSEY  RUNS  THE  CARDS.  137 


"Yes,  she  is  very  unhappy,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  I  thank  my  God  fer  dat  much! "  cried 
Free  Betsey,  lifting  her  hands  high  over  her  head. 
"Dat's  de  Bowden  blood.  Oh,  tell  her  ter  cry 
■ — cry  —  cry!  An'  den,  when  cryin'  don't  do 
her  no  good,  tell  her  dat  her  oP  nigger  is  waitin' 
fer  her  out  yer  in  de  woods." 

"Why  don't  you  come  to  see  her?"  I  sug- 
gested, struck  by  her  devotion.  "No  doubt  she 
would  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"Me  come  dar?"  She  lowered  her  voice,  and 
a  pleased  expression  crept  into  her  face.  "God 
knows,  I  been  layin'  off  ter  come,  suh,  but  I  'in 
skeer'd.  I  ain't  nothin'  't  all  but  a  ole  no-count 
free  nigger,  an'  I  been  skeer'd  dat  ef  I  come  dar 
an'  ax  fer  my  young  mistiss  't  would  make  you  all 
mo'  'spicious  er  de  gal  dan  what  you  is." 

I  followed  Free  Betsey's  thought  rather  than  her 
words,  and  my  admiration  for  her  grew  steadily. 

"I  use  ter  know  Miss  Jane,"  she  went  on,  "an' 
she  '11  fly  up  an'  flew  at  you  at  de  drappin'  uv  a 
hat  an'  drap  it  herse'f .  Ef  I  come  I 'm  comin' 
kaze  you  ax  me,  an'  not  kaze  Mandy  Satterlee 
want  ter  see  me.  She  may  not  want  ter  see  me, 
an'  I  don't  speck  she  do,  but  dat  ain't  needer  yer 
ner  dar;  ef  I  know'd  Miss  Jane  want  gwine  ter 
fly  up  an'  flew'd  at  me,  I 'd  come.  I  sho  would 
—  not  in  de  day  time,  but  in  de  dark  er  de 
moon." 

"You  may  come  any  time,"  said  I. 

Free  Betsey  laughed  gleefully.    "Well,  suh, 


13S 


SISTER  JANE. 


I  'in  nios'  tickled  ter  death  ter  hear  you  talk  dat 
away.  An'  ef  dat's  de  case,  I  '11  hatter  tell  yo' 
fortune."  She  rose  from  the  door  sill,  went  to 
a  shelf  on  which  was  perched  a  small,  square 
mirror,  and  picked  up  a  pack  of  playing  cards. 

"Nonsense! "  I  protested.  "You  don't  think 
I  believe  in  that  sort  of  stuff?" 

"Ek-eh!"  cried  Free  Betsey.  "Don't  make 
no  diflhmce  'bout  b' Kevin'  er  not  b'lievin'.  Dat 
don't  hurt  de  trufe.  It  mostly  in  giner'lly  hurt 
dem  what  don't  b'lieve  de  trufe."  Crude  as  it 
was.  this  was  sound  reasoning,  but  it  bore  no  rela- 
tion to  fortune -telling,  and  so  I  informed  Free 
Betsey. 

"Ef  dat's  de  case,"  she  replied,  "'t  ain't  gwine 
ter  hurt  you  no  how;  an'  ef  'tis  de  trufe  maybe 
it 's  lots  purtier  dan  what  you  specktin'  it  ter  be." 
With  that  she  sat  on  the  door-sill  again,  smoothed 
her  lap  out,  and  began  to  shuffle  the  cards,  show- 
ing a  dexterity  in  the  performance  that  I  have 
never  seen  surpassed.  Suddenly  she  dropped  the 
pack  in  her  lap,  and  turned  to  me. 

"Who  dat  you  had  wid  you  at  de  circus  dat 
time?  "  she  asked. 

The  question  was  so  unexpected,  and  was  put 
so  plumply  that  I  was  taken  aback.  I  suppose 
I  must  have  blushed,  for  Free  Betsey  threw  her- 
self on  the  floor  in  a  paroxysm  of  laughter,  whether 
real  or  feigned  I  had  no  means  of  knowing. 

"Oh,  you  ain't  done  forgot  de  name,"  she 
cried.    k,I  know  by  my  nose  an'  my  two  big  toes." 


FREE  BETSEY  RUNS  THE  CARDS.  139 

"I  was  with  my  sister  and  Miss  Mary  Bullard," 
I  remarked  after  a  while  with  a  dignity  befitting 
the  occasion. 

"De  reason  I  ast,"  Free  Betsey  explained, 
"was  dat  I  run  de  kyards  'bout  you  de  day  de 
circus  wuz  a  callywhoopin'  aroun',  an'  dey  runded 
mighty  quare.  Dey  make  me  open  my  eyes  — 
wide!  I  say  '  Heyo,  how  come  dis? '  an'  4  Heyo, 
how  come  dat  ? '  But  dey  wuz  all  mixt  up  wid 
sump'n  er  nudder,  I  dunner  what.  But  wait! 
I  '11  see  how  dey  talk  now." 

She  shuffled  the  cards  again,  then  divided  them 
into  four  equal  parts,  placing  each  part  to  itself, 
until  she  came  to  the  fourth.  This  she  retained 
in  her  hands,  running  the  cards  rapidly  through 
her  fingers,  and  studying  the  combinations  that 
presented  themselves.  This  she  did  a  half  dozen 
times.  At  last  she  laughed  aloud,  and  ex- 
claimed :  — 

"Man,  dis  beats  all!  'T ain't  much  better  dan 
'twuz  de  day  er  de  circus.  Yer  de  gal  —  dark 
complected  —  same  gal  —  trouble  all  roun'  'er, 
but  not  de  big  trouble  dat  dey  wuz  —  yer  she  is, 
gwine  up  an'  down  —  an'  dar's  de  trouble." 

She  laid  the  cards  in  her  lap  and  took  the  next 
division,  passing  the  pieces  of  painted  pasteboard 
so  nimbly  between  her  fingers,  one  by  one,  that 
they  seemed  to  move  of  their  own  will  and  voli- 
tion. 

"Name  er  de  Lord!"  she  muttered.  "What 
de  matter  wid  deze  kyards?    De  trouble  ain't  no 


SISTER  JANE. 


big  trouble  —  dey  ain't  no  sickness  —  dey  ain't 
no  journeys  —  dey  ain't  nobody  makin'  no  trouble 

—  what  de  matter?"  She  put  the  cards  down 
and  picked  up  the  next  division.  "Folks  all 
gwine  'long  'tendin'  ter  der  own  business  —  no 
ups  an'  downs  —  no  nothin'."  She  took  the 
fourth  and  last  division  in  her  hands  and  went 
through  the  same  formality  of  skimming  them 
through  her  fingers.  "Ah-yi!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Yer  de  light  complected  man!  what  he  doin' 
'way  off  yer  by  his  own  lone  se'f  ?    Mo'  trouble 

—  all  er  he  own  makin'.  What  de  matter  wid 
'im?"  She  took  the  first  division  and  added  it 
to  the  one  she  held  in  her  hands.  "Look  at  um! 
De  dark-complected  gal  gwine  up  an'  down 
makin'  trouble  fer  'er  own  se'f  —  de  light-com- 
plected man  settin'  still  makin'  trouble  fer  he 
own  se'f.  Dat  what  de  kyards  say,"  she  went 
on,  looking  hard  at  me,  "  an'  de  kyards  know  what 
dey  talkin'  'bout.  Dat 's  your  fortune,  Mars'er 
Willyum  Wornum,  an'  I'm  mighty  glad  't ain't 
no  wuss;  I 'm  glad  fum  de  bottom  er  my  heart." 

"It's  not  much  of  a  fortune,"  I  remarked, 
dryly.  "But  since  you  are  so  apt  at  such  things, 
why  don't  you  tell  of  the  little  boy  that  was  lost 

—  Freddy  Bullard?" 

"Don't  you  know  'dout  any  tellin'?"  she 
asked,  with  some  eagerness. 

"I  know  he  is  lost,  certainly,"  I  replied;  "we 
all  know  that." 

"Is  dat  all?" 


FREE  BETSEY  RUNS  THE  CARDS.  141 


"It  is  all  anybody  knows,"  I  said. 

"Ain't  Miss  Jane  done  tol'  you?" 

"She  knows  no  more  than  I  do." 

"Well,  ef  dat  don't  beat  all!  Ain't  Miss  Jane 
tol'  you,  sho  miff:?  " 

I  was  nettled  more  by  the  tone  of  Free  Betsey 
than  by  her  words,  which  had  no  meaning  for  me. 
"Of  course  she  hasn't  told  me  anything  more 
than  everybody  knows,"  I  replied,  with  some 
heat. 

"Well  den,  ef  she  ain't  done  tol'  you,  I  ain't 
gwine  tell  you,  kaze  she  got  some  good  reason. 
'T  ain't  kaze  she  dunno.  Man,  suh!  dey  can't 
fool  Sally  Beshears  an'  dey  can't  fool  Free  Bet- 
sey." 

"Why,  you  must  be  crazy,"  I  exclaimed,  petu- 
lantly. 

"Dat  des  what  de  matter,"  she  said,  in  a  whis- 
per. "01'  Free  Betsey  ain't  only  gone  crazy; 
she  'uz  bornded  crazy.    Dat 's  it  —  dat 's  it!  " 

Of  course  Free  Betsey,  with  characteristic  cun- 
ning, was  trying  to  find  out  what  I  knew  (though, 
indeed,  I  knew  nothing)  of  the  fate  of  Freddy 
Bullard,  so  as  to  weave  it  into  a  rigmarole  of  her 
own  when  she  came  to  "run  "  the  cards. 

"If  you  can  tell  fortunes  with  your  cards,"  said 
I,  "you  can  surely  tell  me  something  of  Freddy 
Bullard." 

"Not  wid  de  kyards,"  she  replied.    "I  got 
sump'n  better  'n  kyards." 
.  With  that  she  went  to  a  chest  that  stood  in  one 


142 


SISTER  JANE. 


corner  of  the  room  —  a  very  substantial  looking 
chest  it  was,  too  —  and  drew  from  its  depths  a 
crystal  of  peculiar  formation,  such  as  are  some- 
times found  on  the  hills  of  middle  Georgia.  It 
was  a  very  large  and  beautiful  stone,  weighing, 
perhaps,  a  pound.  The  surface  was  clear,  but  in 
its  depths  were  flecks  and  splotches  of  white,  hav- 
ing the  appearance  of  a  milky  vapor.  I  took  it 
in  my  hands  and  examined  it  curiously,  turning 
it  about,  and  weighing  it  in  my  palm.  It  was  as 
fine  a  specimen  of  the  kind  as  I  ever  saw,  and  I 
wondered  to  what  use  Free  Betsey  would  put  it. 
My  curiosity  was  soon  satisfied.  She  took  the 
stone  and  closed  both  hands  over  it,  and  held  it  to 
her  face,  and  breathed  on  it  her  warm  breath. 
Then  she  rubbed  it  briskly  on  her  apron  and  held 
it  to  the  light.  It  may  have  been  my  imagina- 
tion, or  it  may  have  been  the  angle  at  which  my 
eyes  fell  on  the  stone,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  vaporous  white  flecks  were  both  thinner  and 
fewer  in  number.  But  the  appearance  of  the 
stone  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  Free  Betsey.  She 
warmed  it  again  by  breathing  upon  it,  and  rubbed 
it  briskly  with  her  apron. 

"It  mighty  cloudy  in  dar,"  she  exclaimed. 

She  breathed  on  it,  and  rubbed  it  the  third 
time,  and  held  it  up  to  the  light.  This  time  I 
was  sure  that  some  change  had  taken  place.  The 
stone  seemed  to  be  dazzlingly  clear,  not  transpar- 
ent, but  teeming  with  pale  sparks  of  light.  This, 
after  all,  may  have  been  due  to  a  trick  of  hand- 


FREE  BETSEY  RUNS  THE  CARDS.  143 


ling,  but,  if  so,  the  trick  was  cleverly  done.  Free 
Betsey  gazed  steadfastly  into  the  clear  depths  of 
the  stone,  mumbling  something  in  an  undertone. 
Presently  she  said :  — 

"A  long  road  an'  a  mighty  rough  un.  Man 
got  de  chil'  by  de  han'.  Sometimes  dey  er  ridin' 
an'  sometimes  dey  er  walkin'.  Sometimes  de  man 
tote  de  chil',  sometimes  he  make  'im  walk.  Some- 
times dey  set  down  on  de  side  de  road  to  res'." 

Free  Betsey  spoke  slowly  and  hesitatingly  as 
if  she  found  difficulty  in  making  head  or  tail  of 
the  tangle  she  found  in  the  mysterious  depths  of 
the  stone. 

"Now  dey  er  walkin'  —  walk,  walk,  walk, — 
dodgin'  in  de  woods  when  somebody  come  by. 
Trudge,  trudge;  chil'  a-cryin',  man  a-cussin'. 
Miles  'pon  top  er  miles  —  cross  big  rivers  an' 
little  uns  —  up  hill  an'  downhill — 'cross  moun- 
tains yit  —  way  off  yander  de  Lord  knows  whar. 
Bimeby  dey  come  to  er  place  whar  some  waggoners 
campin'.  I  see  smoke,  I  see  fire,  I  see  de  tops  er 
de  wagons  —  one,  two  —  dozen  wagons.  Man  an' 
chil'  set  down.  Chil'  mighty  nigh  dead  he  so 
hungy  an'  tired.  Man  slap  de  chil'  fer  to  'im 
hoi'  up  he  head.  So  den!  Man  jine  wid  de 
wagons.  Travel  an'  travel  wid  um.  Bimeby  set 
de  chil'  down  in  de  road  an'  go  off  an'  lef '  'im. 
Man  gone !  —  he  done  gone !  Man  wid  black 
beard  come  'long  take  de  chil'  in  he  arms  an' 
much  'im,  an'  den  he  gi'  'im  sump'n  t'  eat. 
Man  "  —  she  paused,  turned  the  stone  over  in  her 


144 


SISTER  JANE. 


hands.  "Done  gone,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"De  clouds  done  come  back." 

I  took  the  stone  in  my  hand  again,  but  the 
white  vaporous  flecks  (if  they  had  ever  disap- 
peared) had  now  come  back,  thicker,  it  seemed  to 
me,  than  ever.  Turn  the  stone  as  I  would,  it 
refused  to  show  the  lustre  that  it  gave  forth  in 
Free  Betsey's  hand.  This  fact  struck  me,  but  it 
gave  me  no  reason  to  place  any  confidence  in  her 
power  to  read  the  future.  Yet  it  gave  me  a 
strong  sense  of  the  impression  that  her  apparent 
earnestness  and  sincerity  might  make  on  weaker 
minds.  I  gave  her* a  sevenpence  piece,  and  left 
her;  but  before  I  had  got  out  of  hearing,  she 
hollered  at  me  this  prophecy :  — 

"You'll  see  what  I  tol'  you,  an'  you'll  know 
mo'n  dat  'fo'  you  git  many  year  older." 


XL 


TWO  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  ANOTHER. 

It  has  been  said  that  time  moves  more  slowly 
in  a  village  than  elsewhere ;  but  when  a  man  is 
nearing  his  climacteric  (and  mine  I  reckoned  to  be 
the  age  of  forty)  it  moves  all  too  fast  for  him,  no 
matter  where  Providence  has  stationed  him. 
There  were  moments  when  I  could  have  wished  to 
stop  the  hands  on  the  dial,  or  to  do  with  the  sea- 
sons what  J oshua  did  with  the  sun  —  bid  them  to 
stand  still.  But  even  if  the  age  of  miracles  was 
not  past,  as  many  claim  and  believe,  it  were  a 
vain  and  an  idle  thought  for  an  obscure  country 
lawyer  to  hope  to  grow  younger  as  the  years  went 
by  or  to  stay  the  hands  of  time.  Nor  did  I  repine 
that  this  was  so.  Providence  has  given  us  the 
knack  of  accommodating  ourselves  to  circum- 
stances, and  this  gift  is  in  the  nature  of  a  fortune. 
I  was  a  part  of  the  vast  procession,  and,  while  I 
had  my  fancies,  I  was  not  averse  from  growing  old 
with  the  rest.  In  this  business  I  knew  that  I  had 
the  world,  the  planets,  and  the  myriad  stars  for  my 
companions,  and  we  were  all  journeying  along 
together  fulfilling  the  same  divine  order. 


146 


SISTER  JANE. 


I  felt  that  the  burden  of  age,  rightly  carried, 
was  far  more  precious  than  the  vapors  of  youth. 
The  happiness  of  youth  is  according  to  nature; 
the  rarer  happiness  of  age  is  according  to  philoso- 
phy. Youth  has  no  other  knowledge  than  to  seek 
its  pleasure;  but  where  experience  can  extract 
content  and  happiness  from  life,  that  is  a  gift 
above  nature.    And  I  felt  that  I  had  it. 

Yet  I  could  have  my  fancies,  too,  and  they  did 
me  no  harm.  I  could  fancy,  when  I  saw  Mary 
Bullard  (and  I  saw  her  every  day),  how  it  might 
be  if  I  were  younger;  and  if  I  dropped  a  sigh  at 
such  times,  my  discontent  was  as  fleeting  and  as 
momentary  as  a  gust  of  summer  wind.  I  had  but 
to  turn  in  my  chair  to  find  diversion.  I  had  but 
to  pass  into  the  street  to  find  an  ample  supply  of 
the  humor  that  life  provides  for  those  who  have 
eyes  to  see  and  ears  to  hear. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  when  I  had 
gone  into  the  street  to  rid  myself  of  fancies, 
which,  though  entirely  harmless,  were  unprofit- 
able, that  I  chanced  to  meet  with  two  old  friends 
and  acquaintances  (Grandsir  Johnny  Roach  and 
Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby),  men  who  had  known  my 
father  and  who  had  been  his  warm  friends. 
Grandsir  Roach  and  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  lived 
together  a  few  miles  from  the  village,  and  had 
been  neighbors  of  the  Satterlees.  They  were 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  court-house,  talking  to- 
gether, and  I  walked  across  the  public  square  to 
shake  hands  with  them  for  the  sake  of  old  times. 


TWO  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  ANOTHER.  147 

The  two  old  men  were  well-to-do.  They  owned 
land  and  negroes,  horses  and  carriages ;  but  back 
of  their  prosperity  were  the  experience  of  the 
pioneer  and  the  spirit  of  true  democracy.  As 
they  were,  so  were  their  neighbors,  for  in  this 
section  the  aristocracy  of  caste  could  hardly  find 
a  spot  of  ground  on  which  to  plant  its  dainty  feet. 
The  essence  of  manhood  is  character,  and  the  sub- 
stance of  character  is  integrity;  and  integrity 
went  farther  than  wealth  among  this  people.  The 
two  old  men  had  the  independence  that  cares  little 
for  appearances,  and  the  spirit  of  economy  that 
adapts  itself  to  circumstances.  I  could  see  that 
they  had  taken  their  feet  in  their  hands  (as  the 
saying  is)  and  walked  to  the  village,  as  they  had 
done  many  times  before.  They  seemed  to  have 
some  joke  between  them,  for  they  were  chuckling 
and  nudging  each  other  at  a  great  rate.  They 
were  as  glad  to  see  me  as  I  was  to  see  them,  and 
I  was  very  soon  let  into  the  matter  of  the  joke 
that  had  convulsed  them. 

Grandsir  Johnny  Roach  had  started  to  the  vil- 
lage with  the  understanding  that  his  comrade  and 
neighbor,  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby,  would  follow  in 
a  few  moments  and  overtake  him.  Once  under 
way,  Grandsir  Johnny  Roach,  with  the  harmless 
conceit  of  age,  made  up  his  mind  to  surprise  Uncle 
Jimmy  Cosby  by  pushing  forward  as  rapidly  as 
Ins  legs  would  allow  him.  _  He  was  vigorous  for 
all  his  seventy-odd  years,  and  though  the  rheuma- 
tism had  left  him  with  what  he  called  a  "game 


148 


SISTER  JANE. 


knee,"  lie  could  manage  to  move  with  considerable 
celerity.  The  result  was  that  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby 
failed  to  overtake  him  until  he  had  reached  the 
public  square.  Though  both  were  fagged  out 
with  the  unusual  exertion,  they  regarded  it  as  a 
good  joke,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  it  immensely. 

"He  cotch  up  wi'  me,  William,  right  in  the 
aidge  of  town,  an'  I  lay  he  hain't  strained  hisself, 
nother.  Well,  well!  It's  nothin'  to  boast  on, 
Brother  Cosby.  I  reckon  I  frittered  away  my 
wind  a-cuttin'  up  capers  in  my  young  days,  an' 
now  I 'm  a-payin'  of  the  fiddler.  Ther  's  a  turri- 
ble  crick  in  my  knee-jint,  an'  a  tremblin'  in  my 
hams  if  I  but  overdo  my  gait." 

"Oh,  yes!  I  cotch  up  wi'  'im,  William," 
remarked  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby,  complacently, 
"but  I  laid  off  to  overtake  'im  at  the  Baptizin' 
Creek.  I 've  had  to  walk  —  yes,  sir !  —  I 've  had 
to  walk  as  I  hain't  walked  these  many  long  years. 
I  put  out  ten  minnits  arter  you  left,  Brother 
Roach,  an'  I  pulled  right  along  wi'out  lookin' 
uther  to  the  right  or  uther  to  the  left.  I  allowed 
maybe  you  was  in  some  big  hurry  er  'nother." 

Grand  sir  Johnny  Roach  smiled  pleasantly  over 
this  neighborly  tribute  to  his  powers  of  endurance. 

"No,  no,  Brother  Cosby!  "  he  protested;  "I 'm 
lots  too  old  to  be  in  any  hurry ;  I  thess  taken  my 
time  —  a-shufflin'  'long  an'  a-studyin',  an'  a-study- 
in'  an'  a-shufflin'  'long  —  thinkin'  eve'y  blessed 
minnit  that  you  'd  walk  up  behin'  me  an'  slap  me 
on  the  back." 


TWO  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  ANOTHER.  149 


"I  allowed  you  had  somethin'  er  'nother  on  your 
min',  Brother  Eoach,"  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  as- 
sented, "bekaze  I  holla'd  at  you  from  the  top  of 
yan  hill,  but  you  kep'  a-polin'." 

"I'm  like  a  steer,  Brother  Cosby.  When  he 
begins  to  git  warm  in  the  flanks  he  draps  his  head 
an'  makes  fer  shade  an'  water." 

"Well,  we  're  both  here,  Brother  Roach,"  said 
Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby.  "We're  both  here,  an' 
likewise  William  Wornum  —  an'  what  more  can 
you  ax  than  that?  " 

"Nothin',"  replied  Grandsir  Johnny  Roach, 
with  something  like  a  sigh — "nothin'  but  a 
rockin' -cheer  an'  a  jug  of  fresh  buttermilk.  Yit 
I  lay  we  '11  be  obleege  to  put  up  wi'  a  stump  an' 
a  tussock." 

The  two  old  men  sat  silent  for  a  while,  appar- 
ently lost  in  thought.  It  was  evident  that  my  old 
friends  had  grave  affairs  to  deal  with.  Finally 
Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  spoke :  — 

"The  days  is  shortenin'  up.  We 've  come  from 
home  an'  it  hain't  taken  us  long,  but  before 
we 've  been  an'  gone  an'  transacter'd  a  speck  o' 
what  little  business  we  had,  here  't  is  mighty  nigh 
twelve  o'clock." 

Grandsir  Johnny  Roach  cast  a  glance  upward 
at  the  sun.  It  was  swift  and  casual,  but  it  was 
the  glance  of  an  expert.  "No,  Brother  Cosby, 
you  're  wrong.  My  two  eyes  tell  me  it 's  a  leetle 
better  'n  half  arter  ten.  It  ain't  more  'n  a  quarter 
to  eleven,  if  it 's  as  much." 


150 


SISTER  JANE. 


"Maybe  so,  Brother  Roach;  maybe  so;  I'll 
not  dispute  you.  One  hour  more  or  less  hain't 
wuth  wranglm'  over,  speshually  on  a  Sat'day. 
One  hour  or  three,  we 've  got  the  balance  of  the 
day  before  us." 

"That's  so,  Brother  Cosby;  that's  so.  If  we 
was  on  a  frolic  now,  an'  the  fiddle  was  a-gwine, 
we  'd  find  two  hours  ample  time  for  to  git  happy 
in  —  ample  time." 

At  that  moment  I  heard  some  one  singing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  public  square.  The  two 
old  men  also  heard  it,  and  paused  in  their  aimless 
conversation  to  listen.  The  singer  appeared  to 
be  coming  in  the  direction  of  the  court-house,  but 
was  out  of  sight  on  the  other  side. 

"Can  you  make  him  out,  Brother  Cosby?" 
Grandsir  Roach  asked. 

"That  I  can,  Brother  Roach;  that  I  can.  It's 
that  half-wit,  Jincy  Meadows.  It 's  a  God-send 
that  he  hain't  got  sense  enough  to  be  as  mean  as 
his  daddy.  Larkin  loved  money  better  'n  he  did 
his  childern,  an'  now  here  's  his  son  a-trollopin' 
about  from  post  to  pillar,  an'  no  manner  account. 
I  laugh  at  'im  sometimes,  but  it  makes  me  sorry 
for  to  see  sech  a  fool." 

"Don't  laugh  at  'im,  Brother  Cosby;  don't. 
You  know  what  the  sayin'  is  — 4  Don't  squeal  at 
a  sow;  don't  blate  at  a  cow;  don't  kick  at  a  mule; 
don't  laugh  at  a  fool.'" 

"Why,  you  laugh  at  'im  yourself,  Brother 
Roach." 


TWO  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  ANOTHER.  151 

"Not  me,  Brother  Cosby,  not  me!  I  laugh  wi' 
'im,  but  that 's  bekaze  I  can't  he'p  myse'f,  he 's 
so  nimble  wi'  his  tongue.  Lord  'a'  mercy! 
I 've  seed  lots  bigger  fools  in  my  day  an'  time 
than  that  same  Jincy  Meadows." 

Jincy  Meadows  came  around  the  corner  of  the 
court-house  singing  blithely.  He  was  a  lightly- 
built  young  fellow,  apparently  about  twenty -five, 
quick  in  his  movements  and  rather  prepossessing 
in  his  appearance  —  indeed,  not  far  from  hand- 
some. I  had  frequently  had  occasion  to  laugh  at 
his  flippancies,  for  they  often  went  deeper  than  the 
common  apprehension  cared  to  follow.  Though 
he  bore  the  reputation  of  a  half-wit,  which  is  a 
genteel  name  for  a  harmless  lunatic,  he  struck  me 
as  a  young  man  of  uncommon  parts.  As  he  came 
around  the  corner  of  the  court-house,  he  sang :  — 

"  '  Oh,'  said  the  peckerwood,  settin'  on  the  fence, 
'  Once  I  courted  a  comely  wench, 

But  she  proved  fickle  and  from  me  fled, 

And  ever  sence  my  head 's  heen  red.'  " 

He  paused  as  he  came  upon  our  little  group, 
bowed  swiftly  to  me,  and  then  turned  to  the  two 
old  men,  his  arms  akimbo,  and  a  comical  expres- 
sion of  astonishment  on  his  face. 

"Why,  the  great  Jiminy  Craminy!"  he  cried, 
"What  is  this?  The  state  legislater  in  session, 
and  nobody  to  do  the  wind  work!  This  fetches 
my  dream  true.  I  dreampt  last  night  I  was 
elected,  an'  'stead  of  callin'  on  me  to  speak,  they 
called  on  me  to  treat." 


152 


SI  STEM  JANE. 


"We'll  not  ax  you  that,  Jincy,"  Grandsir 
Roach  responded  with  as  much  gravity  as  was  his 
to  command. 

"Well,  that  spiles  the  dream,  then,"  remarked 
Jincy,  "because  I  up'd  and  told  the  boys  that  a 
member  of  the  legislatur,  and  likewise  a  Son  of 
Temperance,  had  to  be  mighty  keerful  about  the 
platform  he  stood  on.  But  we  're  all  here,  now, 
and  what  a  team  we  make!  Johncy,  Jimpsy,  and 
Jincy  —  wisdom,  experience,  and  prudence!  I 
name  these  names  because  no  kind  of  weather  will 
sp'ile  'em." 

Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  nudged  Grandsir  Roach  with 
his  elbow.     "Jest  lis'n  how  that  boy  runs  on!  " 

"Wait!  hold  on!"  exclaimed  Jincy,  holding 
up  his  forefinger  warningly.  "Be  right  still! 
Let 's  jine  hands  and  stand  in  a  ring.  Catch  hold 
of  hands,  Johncy  and  Jimpsy;  now  take  Jincy 's. 
That 's  it;  that 's  the  idee.  Steady  now !  Johncy, 
you  must  blink;  Jimpsy,  you  must  wink;  and 
Jincy  '11  stand  here  and  think.  Now,  then,  all 
make  a  wish  —  one,  two,  three !  —  and  there  you 
are!"  "  . 

Jincy  dropped  the  hands  of  the  two  old  men, 
who  had  unhesitatingly  placed  theirs  in  his, 
stepped  back,  leaped  into  the  air,  and  cut  what  is 
called  "the  pigeon  wing"  with  indescribable  ease 
and  grace. 

"Go  'way,  Jincy;  go  'way!  You're  a  plum 
sight;  go  'way!"  cried  Grandsir  Roach,  giving 
the  young  man  a  playful  punch  with  his  cane. 


TWO  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  ANOTHER. 


153 


Jincy  Meadows  made  a  comical  gesture  of 
despair.  "There  now!"  he  exclaimed.  "You 
can't  get  your  wish;  you  teched  me  whilst  the 
spell  was  on  me.  But  I  know  what  your  wish 
was,  Johncy  —  and  yours,  Jimpsy." 

The  old  men  chuckled,  but  appeared  to  have  no 
desire  to  challenge  Jincy 's  occult  powers. 

"What  are  you  doin'  for  a  livin',  Jincy?" 
asked  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby. 

"Bridging  the  Oconee,  Jimpsy.  Have  n't  you 
heard  about  it?  Why,  it 's  the  talk  of  the  whole 
county.  I  had  the  bridge  finished  last  Saturday, 
but  it  had  to  be  tore  down." 

"Tore  down!  "  exclaimed  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby. 
"What  for,  I 'd  like  to  know?  "  There  was  gen- 
uine interest  in  the  tone  of  his  voice. 

Jincy  looked  around  carefully,  as  if  to  see  that 
no  one  outside  our  little  group  would  overhear 
him.  "Don't  tell  anybody,"  he  said,  in  a  loud 
whisper.  "I  found  a  knot  hole  in  one  of  the 
stringers." 

Grandsir  Roach  shook  his  head  and  sighed. 
Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby 's  countenance  fell.  "Well, 
well,  well!"  said  one,  and  "Well,  well,  well!" 
echoed  the  other. 

I  was  so  charmed  with  this  unique  method  of 
throwing  an  insurmountable  barrier  across  the 
path  of  inquisitiveness,  that  I  resolved  to  test  the 
young  man's  ability  farther. 

"Jincy,"  said  I,  "what  were  our  two  friends 
wishing  just  now?"    In  an  instant  I  regretted 


154 


SISTER  JANE. 


the  question,  but  it  was  too  late.  Jincy  Meadows 
whirled  on  his  boot-heel  and,  quick  as  a  flash, 
replied :  — 

"They  were  wishing  they  knew  where  Mandy 
Satterlee  is,  .and  how  she  is  getting  on.  Now, 
Johncy  and  Jimpsy!  fair  and  square!  "  His  face 
was  flushed  a  little,  and  there  was  an  eager  gleam 
in  his  eye  that  I  had  missed  before. 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  Grandsir  Roach,  speaking 
slowly  and  with  emphasis,  "uther  you  hyearn  me 
a-thinkin'  or  you  're  a  witch  for  guessin'.  Them 
thoughts  was  in  my  min'." 

"  An'  likewise  in  mine,"  assented  Uncle  Jimmy. 

"Now  that  is  queer,"  said  I.  "Mandy  Satter- 
lee is  at  our  house,  and  has  been  there  for  many 
months." 

"At  your  house?"  inquired  Grandsir  Roach, 
as  if  he  had  suddenly  become  hard  of  hearing. 
"Yes,"  I  replied. 

"She's  at  his  house,"  remarked  Grandsir 
Roach,  nudging  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby. 

"Who?  Mandy?"  Uncle  Jimmy  asked  as 
innocently  as  if  he  had  heard  not  a  word  of  the 
conversation. 

"Yes,  Mandy  Satterlee,"  I  reiterated. 

Grandsir  Roach  stroked  his  beard,  cleared  his 
throat,  and  moved  uneasily.  "Well,  sir,"  he 
said,  after  a  pause,  "I  reckon  she 's  well,  an' 
doin'  well;  not  overcome,  as  you  may  say,  by  — 
er  —  by  —  the  —  er  —  by  whatsomever  hard  trials 
that  may  or  may  not  have  been  her  lot,  an'  not 


TWO  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  ANOTHER. 


155 


only  her  "n,  but  of  hunderds  an'  thousan's,  fer  the 
way  is  liter'lly  strowd  wi'  traps  an'  pitfalls." 

While  Grandsir  Roach's  embarrassment  showed 
painfully  in  his  voice  and  manner,  and  while  he 
was  speaking,  Jincy  Meadows  was  walking  about 
in  a  quick,  restless  way. 

"Yes,  Mandy  is  well,"  I  responded. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Grandsir  Roach  with  a  dis- 
play of  feeling  that  rarely  comes  to  the  surface  in 
age,  "when  next  you  see  Mandy  Satterlee,  tell 
her  that  Grandsir  Roach  axed  arter  her  perticu- 
lar,  an'  said  God  bless  her!  " 

"An'  tell  her  that  her  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  said 
Amen!  to  that,"  remarked  that  individual  with 
unction. 

"Johncy  an'  Jimpsy,  what  word  shall  I  send 
her?  "  cried  Jincy  Meadows.  "I  can  crack  jokes 
with  you  all  day,  but  when  it  comes  to  Mandy, 
my  head's  in  a  whirl.  My  mind  flutters  like  a 
rag  in  the  wind." 

Grandsir  Roach  came  to  the  rescue.  "Tell 
Mandy,"  said  he,  with  the  simple  dignity  that 
only  age  can  easily  and  unconsciously  assume, 
"that  you  met  three  of  her  old-time  friends  who 
ain't  f ergot  her.  Call  out  the'r  names  plump  an' 
plain,  an'  tell  her  that  they  axed  arter  her  an' 
said  God  bless  her!  " 

"Why  not  come  with  me  and  see  her?"  I 
asked  before  Jincy  Meadows  could  say  a  word. 
"  Surely  she  would  be  glad  to  see  her  old  friends 
who  still  take  an  interest  in  her.    Come!  " 


156 


SISTER  JANE. 


Grandsir  Roach  stroked  his  beard  thoughtfully. 
"Now,  maybe  she  hain't  prepar'd  to  see  us.  She 
may  n't  be  strong.  It  mought  do  harm.  Wimmen 
is  mighty  quare;  you  don't  know  one  minnit  what 
they  're  a-gwine  to  do  the  next.  An'  no  wonder 
—  bekaze  they  don't  know  their  self  what  they  're 
a-gwine  to  do." 

Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  nodded  an  assent  to  this 
that  would  have  been  vigorous  if  it  had  not  been 
so  solemn. 

"An'  yit,"  Grandsir  Roach  went  on,  "if  you 
think  Mandy  '11  be  one  half  as  glad  to  see  us  as 
we  '11  be  to  see  her,  we  '11  go  right  along  an'  say 
narry  'nother  word."  To  which  Uncle  Jimmy 
again  nodded  his  solemn  assent. 

"Come!"  I  exclaimed,  with  as  much  enthusi- 
asm as  I  could  now  muster,  for  I  had  suddenly 
bethought  me  of  sister  Jane,  and  I  was  doubtful 
as  to  the  light  in  which  she  would  view  the  visita- 
tion. But  Grandsir  Roach  and  Uncle  Jimmy 
Cosby  were  even  more  anxious  to  see  Mandy  than 
I  had  suspected,  and  when  the  invitation  was 
repeated,  they  accepted  it  with  alacrity. 

Jincy  Meadows,  it  seemed,  was  of  another 
mind.  "I  '11  go  as  close  as  the  corner,"  said  he, 
"an'  wait  there.  Johncy  and  Jimpsy,  when  they 
come  out,  can  tell  me  more  than  I  could  find  out 
for  myself.  I 'm  a  mighty  poor  hand  with  wim- 
men folks.  Them  that  don't  think  I 'm  crazy 
don't  keer  whether  I  am  or  not,  and  so  it  goes." 

He  broke  into  a  lilting  song :  — 


TWO  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  ANOTHER.  157 

"  The  chickadee  married  the  old  hlue  dart, 
And  like  to  have  broke  the  gos-hawk's  heart. 
The  wedding  took  place  in  the  finest  weather, 
And  nothing  was  left  of  the  bride  but  a  feather. 

"Well,  Jincy,  you  know  your  own  notions 
better 'n  we  do,"  remarked  Grandsir  Roach,  in  a 
kindly,  soothing  way.  "We'll  tell  Mandy  we 
seed  you,  but  what  else  to  say  I  don't  know." 

"Jest  tell  her  I'm  the  same  old  Jincy,  good- 
for-nothin'  and  no  account.  That  '11  please  her 
jest  as  well  as  anything." 

The  young  man's  tone  was  so  peculiar  that  I 
looked  at  him  narrowly,  and  saw  that  his  counte- 
nance had  lost  the  happy-go-lucky  expression  it 
usually  wore.  Instead,  he  was  frowning  as  if  his 
thoughts  were  anything  but  pleasant.  At  the 
corner  we  left  him,  and  as  we  entered  the  gate 
that  opened  on  the  little  porch  in  front  of  my 
room,  I  looked  back  and  saw  him  whittling  away 
with  his  pocket  knife  on  the  tree-box,  against 
which  he  was  leaning.  He  was  not  the  gay  figure 
I  had  laughed  at  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier. 

It  was  with  some  misgivings  that  I  introduced 
Grandsir  Roach  and  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  under 
our  roof  on  their  present  mission ;  but  their  com- 
ing was  at  my  invitation,  and  their  age,  their 
standing  in  the  county,  and  their  interest  in 
Mandy  Satterlee  all  pleaded  mightily  in  their 
behalf.  What  I  dreaded  was  the  reception  that 
sister  Jane  might  accord  them.  If  it  occurred  to 
her  mind  that  they  had  come  out  of  mere  curios- 


158 


SISTEB  J  AXE. 


ity,  or  for  the  purpose  of  placing  upon  Mandy  a 
burden  of  perfunctory  and  therefore  useless  advice, 
she  would  not  hesitate  to  send  them  about  their 
business  with  their  ears  tingling.  In  view  of  such 
an  emergency,  I  determined  to  leave  the  two  old 
men  in  my  room  and  send  Mandy  to  them.  Ac- 
cordingly I  placed  chairs  for  them,  begged  them 
to  make  themselves  entirely  at  home,  and  excused 
myself  while  I  went  to  inform  Mandy  of  their 
presence. 


xn. 


THE  MANTLE  OF  CHAEITY. 

I  hoped  to  find  Mandy  Satterlee  in  the  kitchen, 
but  she  was  sitting  in  sister  Jane's  room. 

"Mandy,"  said  I,  "two  of  your  old  friends 
have  called  to  see  you." 

She  looked  at  sister  Jane  with  a  startled  expres- 
sion on  her  face.  "I  wonder  what  they  want  wi' 
me!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  ain't  got  no  friends 
that  'd  take  the  trouble  to  call  on  me  —  not  that 
I  know  of." 

"Who  are  they,  William?"  inquired  sister 
Jane,  in  a  severe  tone. 

"Grandsir  Roach  and  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby," 
I  replied.  The  startled  expression  went  out  of 
Mandy's  face,  but  a  contraction  of  her  eyebrows 
showed  she  was  puzzled. 

"Old  Johnny  Roach!"  exclaimed  sister  Jane. 
"Why,  I  thought  he 'd  been  translated  and  trans- 
mogrified too  long  ago  to  talk  about.  What  do 
they  want  with  Mandy?" 

"Merely  to  see  her,"  I  explained.  "They  are 
old  friends,  and  they  seem  to  take  an  interest  in 
her." 

"Well,  I  hope  we  ain't  to  have  the  Georgy 


100 


SISTER  JANE. 


militia  trooping  in  here  the  next  time  there  's  a 
general  muster;  that's  what  I  hope.  Where'- 
bouts  did  you  leave  'em?  In  your  room;  well, 
tell  'em  to  shake  the  mud  off  their  huffs  and  come 
in  here.  If  they  're  so  keen  to  see  Mandy,  here 's 
the  place  to  see  her." 

I  went  back  and  invited  Grandsir  Roach  and 
Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  into  sister  Jane's  room. 
They  had  both  known  us  from  childhood,  but  of 
late  years  they  had  seen  my  sister  only  at  rare 
intervals. 

Grandsir  Roach  entered  the  room  and  looked 
around.  Mandy  had  withdrawn  to  primp  a  little, 
as  women  will  do,  no  matter  how  their  minds 
may  be  racked  with  trouble. 

"Where 's  Jane?  "  Grandsir  Roach  asked,  bow- 
ing formally  to  my  sister,  and  then  turning  to  me. 

"You  must  be  losing  your  eyesight,  Grandsir 
Roach,  if  you  don't  know  me,"  said  sister  Jane. 

"Why,  is  that  reely  you,  Jane?"  he  cried, 
taking  her  hand  and  shaking  it  heartily.  "Well, 
well,  well !  Why,  I  'd  never  'a'  know'd  you  in 
the  roun'  worl'.  No;  my  sight  is  good  —  better'n 
it  was  ten  year  gone;  but  how  was  I  to  know 
you?  I  says  to  myself,  as  I  come  along,  says  I, 
4  I  reckon  Jane  must  be  agein'  some,  because  she 
hain't  no  chicken.'  That's  what  I  said.  But 
never  did  I  hope  to  fin'  you  lookin'  so  well  an' 
so  young.  Why,  you  hain't  changed  a  mite  in 
twenty  year !  " 

It  was  a  neat  compliment  deftly  delivered,  and 


THE  MANTLE  OF  CHARITY. 


161 


its  deftness  lay  in  its  unexpectedness.  It  was  so 
clearly  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  that  sister 
Jane  was  mightily  pleased,  as  I  could  see. 

"This  here  's  Jimmy  Cosby,  Jane;  shorely  you 
ain't  gone  an'  forgot  Jimmy,"  Grandsir  Roach 
went  on.  "Me  an'  Brother  Cosby  has  been  close 
neighbors  for  now  gwine  on  fifty  year." 

"Why,  of  course  I  haven't  forgotten  Uncle 
Jimmy,"  said  sister  Jane,  shaking  his  hand. 
"How  could  I?  I  used  to  ride  his  horse  to  water 
court-week." 

"That's  a  fact  —  that's  a  fact,  Jane,"  Uncle 
Jimmy  assented.  "Many  an'  many 's  the  time 
you  use  to  ride  my  hoss  to  water  when  you  was 
a  little  bit  of  a  gal.  I  was  mighty  much  obleegft 
to  you,  an'  yit  many  's  the  time  I  've  been  af eared 
you 'd  fall  off  an'  hurt  yourse'f." 

"Yes,  an'  she 'd  'a'  rid  my  hoss  to  water  if  it 
hadn't  but  'a' been  a  mule,"  remarked  Grandsir 
Roach  with  a  chuckle.  "She  was  a  right  smart 
of  a  tomboy,  Jane  was,  but  she  draw'd  the  line  at 
mules." 

"An'  I  don't  blame  her  a  bit,"  Uncle  Jimmy 
put  in,  "not  narry  single  bit.  They  hain't  no- 
body under  the  sun  can  git  the  bulge  on  a  mule 
'ceptin'  it 's  a  nigger.  They  know  one  another 
'crost  a  fifty  acre  lot." 

"An'  don't  you  mind,  Brother  Cosby,"  said 
Grandsir  Roach,  chuckling  more  than  ever,  "that 
Jane  was  so  little  that  when  she  taken  your  hoss 
to  water,  she  rid  straddle?" 


162 


SISTER  JANE. 


"Yes,  sir —  she  did!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Jimmy 
Cosby,  "she  certainly  did.  It  had  e'en  about 
drapped  out  'n  my  min'.  If  I  hadn't  saw  it,  an' 
had  to  be  told  of  it,  I  never  would  believe  it. 
No,  sir,  never !  " 

Whereupon  the  two  old  men  laughed  heartily, 
and,  although  sister  Jane  laughed  heartily,  too, 
I  noticed  she  was  very  red  in  the  face  as  she 
placed  chairs  for  our  guests  and  begged  them  to 
be  seated. 

"We're  glad  to  see  you,  Jane,  mighty  glad," 
said  Grandsir  Roach,  "but  we  called  more  spesh- 
ually  for  to  see  Mandy  Satterlee.  I  fully  expected 
to  see  her  settin'  here." 

Promptly  upon  the  mention  of  her  name  Mandy 
appeared  in  the  doorway  and  stood  there.  Her 
face  was  pale,  and  I  noticed  a  hard,  almost  defiant 
expression  in  her  eyes. 

Sister  Jane  must  have  noticed  it,  too,  for  when 
she  said,  "There 's  Mandy,  "  her  voice  was 
pitched  in  a  more  subdued  tone  than  usual. 

"Why,  Mandy,  honey!  Howdy,  howdy!"  ex- 
claimed Grandsir  Roach,  rising  from  his  chair, 
and  going  toward  her.  "I 'm  monstus  glad  to  see 
you.  Me  an'  your  Uncle  Jimmy  thar  come  spesh- 
ually  for  to  see  you,  an'  to  see  how  you  was  gittin' 
'long.  Didn't  we,  Brother  Cosby?  That's  the 
reason  we  come,  honey,  an'  for  nothin'  else  in  the 
worl\" 

I  thought  Mandy  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor. 
She  swayed  back  and  forth,  but  caught  the  side 


THE  MANTLE  OF  CHARITY. 


163 


of  the  doorway  with  her  hand,'  and  then,  with  the 
cry  of  a  frightened  child,  threw  her  arms  around 
Grandsir  Roach's  neck.  When  she  raised  her 
head  the  color  had  returned  to  her  cheeks,  and 
she  was  weeping.  Still  weeping,  she  ran  from 
Grandsir  Roach  to  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby,  and  by 
the  time  she  had  so  far  recovered  herself  as  to  be 
able  to  talk,  the  two  old  men  were  wiping  their 
eyes  and  snuffling  as  if  they  had  suddenly  been 
overtaken  by  acute  summer  colds. 

It  is  the  privilege  of  age  and  of  womanhood  to 
think  no  shame  of  the  display  of  those  intimate 
emotions  that  are  the  spring  of  human  love  and 
duty,  and  these  old  men  and  this  young  woman 
made  no  effort  whatsoever  to  conceal  their  feel- 
ings. Sister  Jane  went  about  the  room  pretend- 
ing to  arrange  things,  the  better  to  hide  her  agita- 
tion. .  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  knock  over  the 
candlestick,  which  was  no  easy  thing  to  do.  The 
clatter  made  by  this  accident  (for  the  candlestick 
fell  from  the  mantel  to  the  hearth,  and  the  dent 
made  in  it  is  there  to  this  day)  acted  somewhat  as 
a  restorative. 

"I  declar'  I  hain't  been  kotch  a-blubberin'  like 
this  sence  —  well,  not  sence  I  dunno  when,"  said 
Grandsir  Roach,  "I  reckon  maybe  we're  gittin' 
ol'  an'  fibble-minded,  Brother  Cosby." 

"Maybe  so,  Brother  Roach,"  replied  Uncle 
Jimmy  Cosby,  "but  I  allowed  it  was  bekaze  we 
hain't  saw  Mandy  in  sech  a  long  time,  an'  we  use 
to  see  her  off  an'  on  forty  times  a  day.    She  was 


164 


SISTER  JANE. 


in  an'  out,  out  an'  in,  constantly,"  Uncle  Jimmy 
went  on,  seating  himself  once  more  —  an  example 
that  was  followed  by  all.  "If  she  wa'n't  a-comin' 
she  wuz  a-gwine;  an'  not  a  bit  er  trouble,  not  the 
least  bit.    She  could  tease  an'  yit  not  pester." 

"That's  the  fact  truth,"  remarked  Grandsir 
Roach — "it  shorely  is.  It's  the  way  of  some 
gals,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  me.  "They  can 
be  allers  in  the  way  apperiently  an'  yit  not  pester 
you.  An'  now  she  has  been  gone  gwine  on  a  year 
or  sech  a  matter." 

I  was  in  the  habit  of  noticing  trifles,  and  it 
struck  me  as  curious  that  although  Mandy  was 
present  in  the  flesh,  the  old  men  talked  about  her 
as  if  she  were  absent. 

"  She 's  lookin'  well,  oncommon  well,"  sug- 
gested Uncle  Jimmy. 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  assented  Grandsir  Roach 
in  a  judicial  tone.  "She  hain't  sufferin'  for  lack 
of  provender." 

"How's  Aunt  Sally  an'  Aunt  Prue?"  Mandy 
inquired. 

Grandsir  Roach  nodded  toward  Uncle  Jimmy 
Cosby  and  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  nodded  toward 
Grandsir  Roach.  "I  know 'd  it!"  said  one;  "I 
told  you  so !  "  echoed  the  other.  And  they  were 
even  more  emphatic  in  giving  quaint  advertise- 
ment of  their  foreknowledge. 

"I  know 'd  that  the  minnit  I  laid  eyes  on 
Mandy,  she 'd  up  an'  ax  about  her  Aunt  Sally. 
I  know'd  it  'd  be  e'en  about  the  fust  word  she  'd 


THE   MANTLE  OF  CHARITY. 


165 


say.  An'  I  says  to  Brother  Cosby,  says  I,  '  Bro- 
ther Cosby,  you  watch  Mandy  —  watch  her  right 
close, -an'  see  if  she  don't  up  an'  ax  arter  her 
Aunt  Sally  the  minnit  she  lays  eyes  on  me. '  I 
leave  it  to  Brother  Cosby  if  I  did  n't." 

"He  said  them  very  identical  words,"  responded 
Uncle  Jimmy,  as  solemnly  as  if  the  matter  was  of 
the  gravest  possible  moment.  "An'  I  says  to 
him,  says  I,  as  plain  as  ever  I  spoke  in  my  life, 
1  Brother  Eoach, '  says  I,  4  keep  your  two  eyes  on 
Mandy  an'  see  if  -  she  don't  make  quick  inquire- 
ments  arter  her  aunt  Prue,'  says  I.  Did  n't  I  say 
them  words,  Brother  Roach?" 

"Identically  —  word  for  word,"  Grandsir  Roach 
promptly  assented.  "Sally's  my  wife,"  he  turned 
to  me  to  explain,  "an'  Prue 's  his'n.  They  hain't 
no  manner  erkin  to  Mandy,  but  they  're  lots  closer 
kin  on  that  account." 

"Aig-zackly  so!"  said  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby; 
he  spoke  deliberately  and  slowly  so  as  to  give  the 
proper  emphasis. 

Mandy  laughed  shyly,  with  a  blush  of  pleasure 
on  her  cheeks,  and  no  wonder.  It  had  been  long 
since  such  kindly  words  had  fallen  on  her  ears. 
"You  hain't  told  me  how  they  are  yit,"  Mandy 
protested. 

"Well  as  common  —  well  as  common,"  replied 
Grandsir  Roach,  with  a  sigh.  "01'  age  is 
a-creepin'  on.  Not  that  they're  cripple;  no,  oh 
no!  They  git  about  same  as  ever,  but  they  ain't 
nigh  as  soople  as  they  was ;  not  nigh.    But  they  're 


166 


SISTER  JANE. 


constantly  a-complainm'.  Your  Aunt  Sally  can't 
have  a  ache  but  what  your  Aunt  Prue  can  match 
it  wi'  a  pain;  an'  your  Aunt  Prue  can't  have  a 
tetch  er  pneumony  but  what  your  Aunt  Sally  '11 
have  a  tetch  er  plooisy.  I  leave  it  to  Brother 
Cosby  there,  if  it  hain't  so.  He 's  settin'  whar 
he  can  cont'adict  me." 

"That's  them!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Jimmy 
Cosby. 

"Oh,  I  can  see  'em  now!  "  cried  Mandy,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  together  tightly.  "Aunt  Sally 
a-weavin'  an'  quar'lin'  when  the  thread  broke,  or 
when  the  sleys  wouldn't  work;  an'  Aunt  Prue 
shooin'  the  chickens  out  'n  the  gyarden  an'  siccin' 
the  dogs  on  the  pigs,  an'  Aunt  Sally  a-hollerin' 
at  Nancy,  the  house  gal;  an'  Aunt  Prue  a-holler- 
in' fer  the  little  niggers  to  come  an'  git  some  fresh 
buttermilk  —  I  see  'em  now." 

"Aig-zackly  so!"  remarked  Uncle  Jimmy 
Cosby  in  his  deliberate  way,  while  Grandsir 
Eoach,  with  his  chin  in  the  hand  that  held  his 
cane  and  a  pleased  smile  on  his  face,  watched  the 
young  woman. 

"An'  Aunt  Sally  an'  Aunt  Prue  settin'  in  the 
same  pew  at  church  on  the  fust  Sunday  in  the 
month  —  Aunt  Sally  fat  an'  Aunt  Prue  lean  —  an' 
a-taking  in  ev'ry  word  the  preacher  says.  An' 
Aunt  Sally  a-dishin'  out  the  chicken  pie  at  her 
house,  an'  Aunt  Prue  the  apple  dumplin'  at  her  'n." 

"She  knows  a  thing  or  two,"  remarked  Uncle 
Jimmy  Cosby,  turning  to  me. 


THE  MANTLE  OF  CHARITY. 


167 


"It  hain't  been  so  mighty  long  ago,  honey," 
said  Grandsir  Roach,  "when  your  Aunt  Prue  an' 
Brother  Cosby  picked  up  an'  come  over  to  our 
house  —  le'  me  see :  wa'n't  it  last  Sunday  night, 
Brother  Cosby  ?  Yes  —  last  Sunday  night.  Your 
Aunt  Sally  an'  your  Aunt  Prue  is  constant 
a-gwine  an'  a-comin',  but  it  hain't  so  mighty 
often  that  Brother  Cosby,  thar,  an'  me  picks  up 
an'  goes  wi'  'em.  But  your  Aunt  Prue  come  last 
Sunday  night,  an'  Brother  Cosby,  thar,  come  wi' 
'er.  Now  when  me  an'  Brother  Cosby  strike  up 
wi'  one  another,  an'  hain't  got  nothin'  better  for 
to  do  than  to  smoke  our  pipes,  we  most  allers 
in  giner'lly  gits  tangled  up  on  politics  an'  sech 
matters.  Brother  Cosby's  a  dimercrat  an'  I 'm  a 
whig.  He  wants  to  run  the  country  one  way  an' 
I  want  to  run  it  another,  an'  so  we  argy,  an'  argy 
as  hot  as  pepper,  an'  uther  he  gits  mad  or  I  fly 
up  like  a  fool  —  an'  that,  too,  when  they  hain't 
no  more  chance  of  uther  one  a-runnin'  the  coun- 
try than  they  is  of  his  jumpin'  to  the  moon.  If 
politics  wa'n't  hatched  for  to  kick  up  a  flurry 
betwixt  neighbors,  I  dunno  what  they  was  hatched 
for,  danged  if  I  do ! 

"But  last  Sunday  night,  as  luck  would  have 
it,"  Grandsir  Roach  went  on,  "politics  wa'n't 
brung  up  betwixt  us.  We  sot  an'  smoked  an' 
listened  at  the  wimmin  a-gwine  on.  Your  Aunt 
Prue  had  saw  some  new-fangled  bonnet  some'rs  er 
nother,  an'  she  sot  right  flat-footed  in  her  cheer 
thar  an'  pictur'd  out  to  your  Aunt  Sally  ev'ry 


168 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


flower  an'  folderol  an'  all  the  conflutements  that 
the  consarn  had  on  it.  I  winked  at  Brother  Cosby 
an'  he  wdnked  at  me,  as  we  sot  a-smokin'  an' 
a-lis'nin'.  Then,  not  to  be  outdone,  your  Aunt 
Sally,  she  up 'd  an'  tol'  your  Aunt  Prue  about 
a  new  frock  she  seed  some  'oman  er  nother  have 
on,  an'  thar  they  had  it  up  an'  down.  Sech  a 
frock  I  ain't  hyearn  tell  on  in  many  a  long  day 
before.  It  had  purty,  flowin'  sleeves,  an'  the 
waist  was  cut  bias,  so  your  Aunt  Sally  said,  an 
there  was  a  streak  er  ribbin  here  an'  a  stripe  of 
yaller  trimmin'  thar,  an'  the  skyirt  was  gethered 
so,  an'  braid  run  down  the  sides.  An'  '  wTkar- 
bouts  was  the  placket  ? '  says  your  Aunt  Prue, 
an'  6  'T  was  teetotally  hid  out  'n  sight,'  says  your 
Aunt  Sally.  That 's  the  way  they  run  on  with 
their  rigamarole. 

"  Bimeby  I  sez  to  Brother  Cosby,  says  I,  4  Bro- 
ther Cosby,  how 's  craps  ? '  says  I.  Did  n't  I, 
Brother  Cosby  ?    I  leave  it  to  you." 

"You  said  them  very  words,  Brother  Roach," 
replied  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby,  "  an'  I  ups  an'  says, 
says  I,  4  Well,  Brother  Roach,'  says  I,  4  they're 
lots  better  'n  we  desarve,  but  not  as  good  as  I 
hoped  for,'  says  I." 

"He  said  them  identical  words,"  continued 
Grandsir  Roach,  looking  proudly  around  to  see 
what  effect  had  been  produced  on  his  small  audi- 
ence. "An'  then  I  hitched  my  cheer  back  an' 
says,  says  I,  '  I  wonder  whar  'bouts  in  this  wide 
worl'  Mandy  Satterlee  is  this  night?'    At  that, 


THE  MANTLE  OF  CHARITY. 


169 


the  wimmen  squared  aroun'  an'  looked  at  me  an' 
then  looked  in  the  fireplace.  You  mind  that 
cheer  you  use  to  set  in,  don't  you,  honey?  The 
one  what  was  so  high  that  I  had  to  saw  the  legs 
off  so  you  could  make  your  feet  tech  the  floor? " 

"That  was  when  I  was  a  little  gal,"  remarked 
Mandy. 

"That's  so,  honey,"  Grandsir  Roach  went  on, 
"but  you  never  sot  in  no  other  cheer,  not  in  my 
house,  less'n  you  was  a-settin'  at  the  dinner-table. 
Well,  thar  sot  your  cheer  in  the  cornder  whar  it 
allers  sets  at.  Your  Aunt  Sally  looked  at  it  an' 
sorter  draw'd  a  long  breath,  an'  says,  says  she, 
'  Thar  sets  her  cheer.  It  looks  like  it 's  a-waitin' 
for  her  to  come  back,'  says  she." 

"Oh,  did  she  say  that?"  cried  Mandy.  "Tell 
her  I  love  her  more  an'  more  the  older  I  git." 

"Them  was  her  words,"  said  Uncle  Jimmy 
Cosby,  with  more  gravity  than  ever. 

"  Jes'  so!"  Grandsir  Roach  went  on  —  "jes' 
so  !  It 's  like  I  tell  you.  But  that  ain't  all.  Your 
Aunt  Prue  she  looks  over  at  the  cheer,  an'  ups  an' 
says,  says  she,  4 1  ain't  got  no  cheer  fer  Mandy  in 
pertickler,  but  they  're  all  her'n  ef  she  '11  come  an' 
set  in  'em.  They  're  all  her'n,'  says  she,  4  an'  the 
Lord  knows  my  heart  jest  natchully  yearns  arter 
that  gal.  Day  or  night,'  says  she, 4  no  matter  how 
she  comes,  no  matter  when  she  comes,  no  matter 
whichaway  she  comes,  my  arms  is  open  for  her,' 
says  she." 

44  Word  for  word  that  was  what  she  said,"  re- 
marked Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby. 


170 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  Oh,  I  love  'em  both,"  said  Mandy,  almost  in 
a  whisper.  Her  voice  was  husky,  and  to  hide  her 
tears  she  turned  sidewise,  threw  her  arms  on  the 
back  of  her  chair  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Yessum  an'  yes,  sir ! "  exclaimed  Grandsir 
Roach,  nodding  first  to  sister  Jane  and  then  to 
me  ;  "  that 's  the  way  it  happened.  An'  then  we 
all  sot  right  still  an'  looked  in  the  fire,  an'  all 
a-thinkin'  an'  a-thinkin'  'bout  Mandy  Satterlee. 
Terreckly,  your  Aunt  Sally  ups  an'  says,  says  she, 
4  The  settlement  hain't  what  it  use  to  be  when 
Mandy  was  aroun'.  She 'd  come  a-runnin','  says 
she,  '  an'  grab  me  'roun'  the  neck  an'  gi'  me  a  good 
hug  most  'fore  I  know'd  who  under  the  blue  cano- 
pies it  was,'  says  she,  '  an'  when  it  come  to  fillin' 
the  sleys,  her  fingers  was  nimble  as  a  gray  spider's 
legs,'  says  she. 

" 4  Yes,  yes,'  says  your  Aunt  Prue,  says  she ; 
'  whatsomever  was  to  be  done  she 'd  do  an'  sing 
all  the  time  she  was  a-doin'  of  it,'  says  she,  *  an' 
many  a  time  when  it  looked  like  she  was  lonesome, 
she 'd  come  an'  cuddle  down  on  the  floor,'  says  she, 
'  an'  lay  her  face  agin  my  knee  an'  set  cuddled  up 
that  a-way  for  ever  so  long.  If  a  day  passed  that 
she  did  n't  come,  I 'd  begin  for  to  feel  oneasy,'  says 
she.  I  '11  leave  it  to  Brother  Cosby  here,  honey, 
if  that  wa'  n't  about  the  upshot  of  what  your  Aunt 
Prue  said." 

"  Even  so,  even  so,  Brother  Roach,"  remarked 
Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby.  "  An'  more  than  that,  when 
me  an'  your  Aunt  Prue  went  home  that  night  — 


TEE  MANTLE  OF  CHARITY. 


171 


it 's  but  a  step ;  little  better  'n  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
—  the  fire  had  kinder  died  out  on  the  h'ath,  an'  so, 
jest  as  natchual  as  you  please,  I  sot  to  work  to 
kindle  a  light.  I  got  me  a  light-'ud  knot  whar  I 
allers  keep  'em,  an'  then  "I  got  down  on  my  knees 
an'  blow'd,  an'  blow'd  tell  it  looked  like  I  could  n't 
blow  no  more,  an'  all  that  time  I  did  n't  hear  your 
Aunt  Prue  make  a  sign  of  fuss.  I  come  mighty 
nigh  a-losin'  both  my  mind  an'  my  temper,  the 
fire  was  so  hard  for  to  kindle ;  an'  bimeby  I  says 
to  your  Aunt  Prue,  says  I,  6  Ma ! '  —  I  allers  call 
her  ma  sence  we  had  childun  an'  lost  'em  —  I  hol- 
la'd  out,  I  did,  4  Ma,  what  in  the  Nation  do  you 
reckon  has  got  into  the  fire  ? '  says  I.  Yit  not  a 
sign  of  a  soun'  did  she  make,  so  I  allowed  she  had 
gone  into  the  next  room,  or  maybe  in  the  kitchen. 
Then  I  took  my  ol'  wool  hat  an'  fetched  the  h'ath 
a  swipe  or  two,  an'  the  blaze  sprung  up  so  sudden 
that  I  most  fanned  it  out  ag'in  before  I  could 
ketch  my  han'.  I  looked  up  an'  there  was  your 
Aunt  Prue  a-standin'  right  at  me,  an'  she  had  her 
hankcher  out  a-cryin'. 

44  4  Why,  ma,'  says  I,  4  what  on  the  roun'  earth 's 
the  matter  ? '  bekaze  it  hain't  so  mighty  often  you 
see  your  Aunt  Prue  a-cryin'  that  a-way.  I  says, 
says  I,  4  You  're  nervious,  ma,  an'  you  better  go  to 
bed.'  An'  then,"  —  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  paused 
here  to  chuckle  —  44  an'  then  she  flew  up  like  wim- 
men  will.  4 1  hain't  no  more  nervious  than  you,' 
says  she,  4  an'  I  '11  go  to  bed  when  I  git  good  an' 
ready.    It 's  come  to  a  mighty  purty  pass  when  I 


172 


SIS  TEE  JANE. 


can't  cry  when  I  want  to,'  says  she.  I  know'd 
right  then  she  was  a-cryin'  'bout  Mandy,  an'  when 
she  had  sorter  cooled  off  she  up 'd  an'  tol'  me  so." 

Mandy  raised  her  head  and  exclaimed,  "  Oh, 
don't  let  'em  cry  for  me.  Oh,  please  don't.  I 
hain't  wuth  a  thought  from  narry  one  of  them  good 
wimmen.  I  love  'em  —  I  love  'em  lots  better  'n 
if  they  was  any  kin  to  me  ;  but  I  ain't  fitten  to  be 
loved  by  nobody." 

"  Why,  honey !  "  said  Grandsir  Roach  gently. 
"  You  're  fergittin'  all  about  the  Bible." 

"  I  ain't  fitten  to  think  about  the  Bible,"  pro- 
tested Mandy. 

By  a  lift  of  her  eyebrows  and  a  slight  motion  of 
her  head  sister  Jane  gave  the  two  old  men  to 
understand  that  it  would  be  well  to  let  Mandy 
fight  with  her  troubles  in  her  own  way.  Grandsir 
Roach  lifted  his  hat  from  the  floor  beside  his  chair 
where  he  had  dropped  it,  and  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby 
did  the  same. 

"  I  thank  you  kindly,  Jane,  for  permittin'  of  us 
to  come  an'  see  Mandy.  I  thank  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  It  '11  do  us  a  sight  of  good 
if  it  don't  do  her  none.  An'  we  '11  go  back  home 
an'  tell  her  Aunt  Sally  an'  her  Aunt  Prue  how 
comf 'tubly  she 's  fixed,  an'  they  '11  be  might'ly  holp 
up  —  might'ly  holp  up." 

He  turned  to  Mandy.  "  Good  -  by,  honey. 
We  '11  drap  in  an'  see  you  once  in  a  way  when  we 
come  to  town  if  we  hain't  wore  our  welcome  out 
wi'  Jane  here." 


THE  MANTLE  OF  CHARITY. 


173 


"  You  can't  wear  your  welcome  out  in  this 
house,"  said  my  sister  with  more  earnestness  than 
I  had  seen  her  display  toward  people  with  whom 
she  was  not  intimate. 

"  I  thank  you  kindly,  J ane  ;  I  do  from  the  bot- 
tom of  my  heart,"  Grandsir  Roach  responded.  He 
turned  again  to  Mandy.  "  Honey,  when  you  git 
w'ary  an'  tired,  you  know  whar  to  come.  When 
you  git  homesick  "  — 

"  Oh,  I 'm  allers  homesick  !  "  cried  Mandy. 
"  Day  an'  night,  night  an'  day." 

"  That 's  a  great  compliment  to  me,"  said  sister 
Jane,  trying  to  give  a  lighter  turn  to  the  conversa- 
tion. 

For  answer,  Mandy  ran  and  seized  sister  Jane 
in  her  strong  arms.  "  I  love  you  as  well  as  I  ever 
did  anybody,"  she  sobbed.  "  Nobody  in  the  world 
has  done  more  for  me  than  what  you've  done. 
Oh,  please  don't  talk  that  away." 

Sister  Jane  petted  and  consoled  the  poor 
girl  much  as  if  she  had  been  a  child,  and  as  effect- 
ually. 

"  We  left  Jincy  Meadows  out  thar,"  remarked 
Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby,  "an'  we've  got  to  be 
agwine." 

"  How  is  Jincy  ?  "  asked  Mandy. 

"  Well  as  common  —  e'en  about  the  same  oF 
Jincy  —  full  of  queer  notions.  If  you  want  to  see 
him"  —  Uncle  Jimmy  paused,  and  stood  waiting. 

"  Not  now,"  said  Mandy,  "  not  now ;  maybe 
never  —  I  dunno." 


174 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  That  '11  be  a  mighty  hard  tale  to  tell  Jincy, 
honey,"  suggested  Grand  sir  Roach. 

"  I  '11  think  —  I  can't  tell,"  cried  Mandy,  stand- 
ing irresolute.  "  Some  time  —  but  not  now.  Oh, 
I  hain't  fitten  for  Jincy  to  be  a  pesterin'  hisse'f 
'long  of." 

"  Bless  your  heart,  honey,"  said  Grandsir  Roach 
with  a  chuckle,  "  it  don't  pester  Jincy  the  least  bit 
in  the  worl'.  I  '11  tell  'im  for  to  come  see  you 
some  day  when  you  're  feelin'  well." 

Then  the  two  old  men  took  their  leave  of  Mandy 
and  sister  Jane.  As  I  went  with  them  to  the 
outer  door  I  remarked  to  Grandsir  Roach :  — 

"  You  and  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  certainly  know 
how  to  deal  out  charity." 

"  Charity !  "  exclaimed  Grandsir  Roach.  "  Why, 
William,  what  does  Paul  say  ?  Look  it  up  in  the 
Bible !  Why,  take  charity  out  'n  religion  an'  what 
in  the  name  of  common  sense  would  be  left  ?  No- 
thin'  but  the  dry  peelin's.  It 'd  be  like  takin'  corn 
out  'n  the  shuck.  Shucks  '11  maybe  do  for  steers 
an'  dry  cattle,  an'  they  're  mighty  poor  ruffage 
e'en  for  them  ;  but  you  give  shucks  to  creeturs 
what 's  got  any  sense  an'  they  '11  snort  at  'em  an' 
walk  away  from  the  trough.  Why,  William,  a 
man  that  reely  knows  he 's  got  a  soul  for  to  save 
is  bound  by  his  own  sins  to  be  charitable  when  it 
comes  to  t'  other  folks's  sins." 

I  shook  hands  with  my  two  old  friends  and 
made  haste  to  write  down  Grandsir  Roach's  sermon 
on  charity. 


XIII. 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A— CALLING. 

Aftee  that,  I  noticed  that  Mandy  went  about 
the  business  she  had  taken  on  herself  much  more 
cheerfully.  She  had  a  knack  of  singing  from  the 
first,  but  I  had  found  out  long  ago  that  it  was  the 
result  of  habit  rather  than  of  mental  exaltation. 
I  had  remarked  on  her  singing  one  day  when  she 
looked  at  me  with  surprise. 

"La!  was  I  singin'?"  she  asked.  "I  didn't 
know  it,  an'  I 'm  mighty  certain  I  don't  feel  much 
like  singin'.  I  reckon  you  an'  Miss  Jane  take  me 
to  be  a  mighty  quare  creetur." 

But  in  a  short  while  I  heard  her  singing  again, 
and  then  I  knew  it  was  a  habit  that  afforded  some 
relief  from  her  distracted  thoughts,  such  as  I  was 
sure  she  had.  I  had  seen  the  evidence  of  it  too 
often  to  doubt  it.  Yet  her  songs  were  a  shade 
blither,  it  seemed  to  me,  after  the  visit  of  Grandsir 
Roach  and  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby ;  and  I  thought 
there  was  a  brightness  about  her  that  had  been 
lacking  before.  But  I  could  not  be  sure,  for  sister 
Jane  had  charged  such  wild  extravagance  to  my 
imagination  that  I  was  sometimes  inclined  to  doubt 
the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes.    Bat  in  this  matter 


176 


SISTER  JANE. 


I  had  Klibs  as  a  witness,  for  that  stout  toddler  was 
staring  at  me  one  day,  not  long  after  the  visit  of 
Mandy's  two  old  friends,  when  he  suddenly  re- 
marked :  — 

"  Mammy  ting  now.  Fwen  me  git  feepy,  she 
don't  ky  no  mo.  Her  ting."  The  solemnity  of 
this  remark  was  shattered  when  Klibs  followed  it 
almost  immediately  with  a  dire  threat  and  prophe- 
sied its  results.  "  Me  dine  ter  tut  off  Tommy  tat's 
tail.  Den  Nanny  Dane  will  tut  off  my  wears." 
Which,  being  interpreted  fairly  and  fully,  was  as 
much  as  to  say  that  Klibs  intended  to  cut  off 
Tommy  Tinkins's  tail,  a  crime  that  would  be  pun- 
ished by  the  loss  of  Klibs's  ears. 

So  I  said  to  him  as  solemnly  as  I  could  that  it 
would  be  well  to  save  his  ears  by  allowing  the  cat 
to  carry  his  tail  in  comfort  and  peace. 

"  Oo  tut  off  Tommy  tat's  tail,"  suggested  Klibs, 
by  way  of  a  compromise.    "  Me  dit  de  tizzers." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  Klibs,"  I  replied.  "  Aunty 
Jane  would  cut  off  my  ears,  too." 

"  Oo  tan  byake  de  'ookin-dass,  den." 

"  No,  no,  Klibs  ;  go  and  break  it  yourself." 

"  Uh-uh  !  "  said  the  toddler.  "  Nanny  Dane'tut 
off  my  tinners." 

I  was  much  struck  by  the  fact  that  the  change 
in  Mandy  had  been  observed  by  the  child,  who 
was  now  about  two  years  old.  It  is  gratifying  to 
have  our  notions  confirmed,  no  matter  from  what 
source,  and  I  have  often  observed  that  the  most 
ordinary  person  becomes  important  in  our  estima- 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A— CALLING.  177 

tion  in  proportion  to  his  ability  to  flatter  us  by- 
confirming  our  views  or  agreeing  with  our  opin- 
ions. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Klibs,  the  baby, 
was  as  viciously  disposed  as  his  conversation  would 
lead  one  to  suspect.  He  had  been  told  not  to 
worry  the  cat,  not  to  play  with  the  scissors,  and 
not  to  break  the  looking-glass ;  and,  like  our  first 
parents  in  the  garden,  his  mind  dwelt  on  that 
which  he  was  forbidden  to  do.  In  fact,  the  inter- 
diction he  regarded  as  a  suggestion,  and,  young  as 
he  was,  his  "  finners  "  (as  he  called  them)  ached 
and  itched  to  go  about  getting  the  scissors  to  cut 
the  cat's  tail  off  :  and  when  that  was  impossible  he 
wanted  to  see  the  mirror  broken  by  some  other 
hand.  Here  was  the  old  Adam  over  again ;  and 
so  plain  a  case  that  it  confirmed  the  suspicion  in 
my  mind  that  the  original  Adam,  not  being  will- 
ing to  assume  the  responsibility,  begged  mother 
Eve  to  pluck  the  apple  and  taste  it  on  the  sly. 

As  may  be  supposed,  the  baby  had  thrived  won- 
derfully. Without  a  special  nurse,  it  grew  to  be 
an  independent  youngster,  and  having  no  other 
children  to  play  with,  it  took  on  older  ways  than 
most  youngsters  have,  and  came  to  be  very  preco- 
cious. Nevertheless  it  may  be  said  of  Klibs  that 
he  never  knew  what  real  life  and  enjoyment  was 
until  Free  Betsey  came  to  see  her  young  mistress, 
which  she  did  shortly  after  the  episode  that  has 
already  been  described.  Mandy  Satterlee,  know- 
ing Free  Betsey  of  old,  had  all  confidence  in  her 


178 


SISTER  JANE. 


trustworthiness.  Indeed,  when  the  negro  woman 
took  the  child  in  her  arms  and  was  gone  for  half  a 
day,  as  sometimes  happened,  Mandy  betrayed  less 
uneasiness  than  did  sister  Jane,  who  was  constantly 
running  to  the  little  gate  and  looking  up  and  down 
the  street.  More  than  once  I  could  see  that  sister 
Jane  was  irritated  with  Mandy  for  not  sharing  her 
anxiety  about  the  child. 

Once  I  heard  her  say,  "I  '11  be  bound,  if  I  had 
a  child  I  would  n't  trust  it  to  no  old  nigger  trollop 
and  let  her  tote  it  off,  you  don't  know  where,  and 
keep  it  half  the  day." 

To  which  Mandy  replied :  "  Well,  if  you  know 'd 
Mammy  Betsey  as  well  as  I  do  you  would  n't  let 
it  pester  your  mind  a  minnit  —  not  a  blessed 
minnit." 

"  I  may  not  know  Free  Betsey  so  mighty  well," 
retorted  sister  Jane, "  but  I  know  the  nigger  tribe, 
an'  I  would  n't  trust  one  of  'em  out  of  sight  with 
anything  that  I  set  store  by." 

On  one  occasion  it  happened  that  sister  Jane, 
by  reason  of  an  unforeseen  accident  that  befell 
Klibs,  was  able  to  shake  her  head  and  cry,  "  I 
told  you  so."  Free  Betsey  was  in  the  habit  of 
carrying  the  baby  to  see  Mrs.  Beshears  in  the 
mornings  or  during  the  afternoons.  She  was  al- 
ways welcome  there,  for  Mrs.  Beshears  had  taken 
a  great  fancy  to  the  baby.  It  chanced  that  there 
was  an  old  gray  goose  brooding  on  a  nestful  of 
eggs  in  the  narrow  space  that  separated  two  negro 
cabins.    Whether  Klibs  saw  the  old  gray  goose 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A— CALLING.  179 


and  desired  to  introduce  himself,  or  whether  he 
was  merely  exploring  the  nook  because  it  presented 
new  possibilities  of  mischief,  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  All  that  is  clearly  known  is  that  there  was 
a  tremendous  noise  of  squalling,  and  flapping,  and 
fluttering.  Free  Betsey  was  on  hand  before  the 
old  gray  goose  could  do  any  serious  damage  with 
her  strong  beak  and  wings,  but  the  incident  exer- 
cised a  wholesome  influence  over  Klibs  that  lasted 
many  months.  As  sister  Jane  dryly  remarked, 
when  she  came  to  appreciate  the  humor  of  the 
affair,  "  Klibs  came  home  sober  for  the  first  time 
in  many  weeks." 

We  laughed  heartily  when  Free  Betsey  gave 
her  version  of  the  event,  remarking  among  other 
things  that  the  baby  was  too  badly  frightened  or 
too  much  astonished  to  cry.  Klibs  listened  to  the 
narration  with  a  solemn  air  that  was  too  funny  to 
admit  of  description.  When  Free  Betsey  paused, 
he  toddled  to  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  stood 
there  a  moment  gravely  regarding  us.  When  he 
spoke  it  was  to  the  point. 

"  Doose  say  sh-h-h  !  "  then  he  waved  his  chubby 
hands  up  and  down  and  ran  about  with  his  mouth 
open  to  show  how  demon-like  the  attack  had 
been.  He  concluded  the  pantomime  by  flopping 
down  on  the  floor  and  rolling  over  and  over  to  show 
by  what  shrewd  antics  he  had  escaped  annihilation. 
Then  he  sat  up  and  gave  us  the  owl-like  stare  that 
always  preceded  his  efforts  to  engage  in  conversa- 
tion. 


180 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  Nanny  Dane  dine  tut  pi'  doose's  finners  off," 
he  remarked,  adding :  "  Me  byake  ol'  doose's 
'ookin-dass ;  me  tut  'im  tail  off  wif  de  tizzers." 

Whereupon  sister  Jane  swooped  down  upon  hi  in, 
lifted  him  in  her  arms,  and  proceeded  to  "  hug  him 
to  death,"  a  threat  she  often  made.  "  You  pre- 
cious child !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  That  old  gray 
goose  shan't  treat  you  so  -1-  Nanny  Dane  will  cut 
off  the  old  goose's  fingers,  and  you  shall  cut  off 
her  tail  with  the  scissors,"  with  much  more  to  the 
same  effect,  some  of  it  untranslatable. 

Klibs's  adventure  with  the  old  gray  goose  was 
very  fortunate  in  many  respects.  It  was  a  strong 
source  of  discipline,  as  we  shortly  found  out.  If 
he  started  to  go  where  he  had  been  told  not  to  go, 
or  to  do  anything  he  had  been  told  not  to  do,  we 
had  but  to  mention  the  old  gray  goose.  He  had 
deep  thoughts  about  the  goose.  He  pondered  over 
the  problem  she  presented.  He  would  sit  for  long 
minutes  apparently  studying  his  chubby  hands, 
and  suddenly  remark :  "  Me  ol'  doose !  "  Then 
he  would  shake  his  arms  up  and  down  as  the  goose 
shook  her  wings.  I  often  thought  Klibs  must 
have  had  a  keen  eye  to  see  so  much  in  such  a 
short  space  of  time,  for  those  who  have  disturbed 
old  mother  goose  when  she  is  brooding  have  good 
reason  to  know  that  she  never  pauses  to  count  her 
steps  when  making  an  attack. 

One  morning  several  weeks  after  the  visit  of 
Grandsir  Roach  arid  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby,  I  heard 
a  light  knocking  on  my  door.   Opening  it,  I  found 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A— CALLING.  181 


Jincy  Meadows  standing  on  the  little  porch.  He 
was  better  dressed  than  usual,  but  his  face  wore  an 
expression  of  extreme  embarrassment. 

"  Sh-h-h !  "  he  whispered.  "  Don't  holla  my 
name  out  loud.  I  knocked  and  then  I  got  ready 
to  run,  but  before  I  could  jump  off  the  porch  you 
opened  the  door.  Why,  you  must  'a'  been  standin' 
right  there  ready  and  waitin'." 

"  Come  in  —  come  in,"  I  said,  with  as  much 
hospitality  as  I  could  muster  at  the  moment. 
"  What  is  the  matter?" 

"  Don't  holla  so  loud,"  Jincy  protested.  "  Why, 
they  can  hear  you  on  the  fur  side  of  town,  much 
less  in  the  house." 

"  I'm  not  talking  above  a  breath,"  I  explained. 

"  Maybe  not,"  remarked  Jincy  with  a  comical 
air  of  trepidation,  "  but  to  a  skeer'd  man  it  sounds 
like  thunder." 

"  Come  in,"  I  insisted. 

"Well,  don't  shet  the  door  too  tight,"  said 
Jincy.  "  I 'm  two  minds  whether  to  stay  or 
whether  to  cut  and  run.  Leave  the  door  on  the 
crack,  for  if  I  was  to  hear  a  bug  hit  agin  the  wall 
I 'd  make  a  break." 

"  Well,  there  is  nothing  here  to  hurt  you, 
Jincy,"  I  remarked,  determined  to  humor  his 
whims. 

"  That 's  the  trouble,"  he  explained,  "  I  don't 
mind  knockin'  and  bein'  knocked  ;  I 'm  allers  the 
skeerdest  when  there  's  nothin'  to  be  skeer'd  at." 

<rVery  well,"  said  I,  "if  you  want  to  be  fright- 


182 


SISTER  JANE. 


ened  at  nothing,  there 's  no  harm  done,  and  if  you 
want  to  run,  I  '11  clap  my  hands  and  cry  4  Well 

done ! '  " 

44  Now  that  's  right,"  replied  Jincy.  44 1  feel  lots 
more  at  home  when  I  know  you  don't  mind  if  I 
break  and  run.  If  anybody  had  'a1  told  me  ten 
minnits  ago  that  I 'd  be  a-settin'  up  in  here,  I 'd  'a' 
said  they  was  the  biggest  liars  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  And  yit  I  laid  off  for  to  come  here  when 
I  loped  out  from  home." 

44  Well,  you  are  all  dressed  up,"  I  suggested. 
44  If  I  had  met  you  on  the  street,  I  should  have 
said  to  myself,  4  There  goes  a  young  buck  intent 
on  paying  a  call.'  " 

44  Would  you  now  ? "  inquired  Jincy,  a  broad 
grin  spreading  over  his  face.  44  Well,  I  '11  be 
dang !  You 'd  'a'  saw  me  and  'a'  know'd  it !  But 
that 's  jest  the  trouble,"  he  went  on,  hitching  his 
chair  a  little  closer  to  mine.  44 1  don't  know  what 
fool  notion  made  me  fling  on  this  Sunday  rig.  It 
makes  me  feel  like  pitchin'  out  and  'tendin'  some 
church  or  other.  I  ain't  met  a  man  in  the  road  but 
what  I  expected  him  to  pop  his  whip  and  drap  me 
a  scriptur'  text.  It 's  the  cloze ;  nothin'  but  the 
cloze.  I  says  to  myself,  when  I  put  'em  on,  4 1  '11 
go  call  on  Mandy  Satterlee.'  Then,  when  I  got 
to  the  town  branch,  I  watered  my  hoss  and  says, 
4  No,  I  '11  not  call  on  her ;  I  '11  jest  go  and  ax  how 
she 's  a-gittin'  on.'  When  I  got  to  town,  I  says, 
4  No,  I  '11  jest  make  like  I 'm  axin'  about  her  ;  I  '11 
go  to  the  door  and  knock  on  it,  light  as  a  f eather, 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A— CALLING.  183 


and  then  walk  off  as  big  as  anybody.'  Did  you 
reely  hear  me  knock,  or  was  you  comin'  out  on 
your  own  hook  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Of  course  I  heard  you  knock,"  said  I.  "  It 
sounded  as  though  some  one  were  trying  to  batter 
the  door  down." 

He  doubled  his  fist  and  looked  at  it  apparently  . 
with  great  curiosity.    Then  he  spread  out  his  hand 
on  his  knee  and  viewed  it  critically.    It  was  not 
an  ugly  hand  by  any  means,  having  known  very 
little  hard  work. 

"  That  hand 's  lots  too  heavy,"  he  remarked  ; 
"lots  too  heavy  for  the  rest  of  my  body.  I  hit 
that  door  as  light  as  I  could  to  save  my  life. 
But,  shucks !  my  luck 's  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
fence,  and  it 's  a  fence  I  can't  climb,  jump,  nor 
creep  through." 

"  You  wanted  to  come  without  being  seen,  and 
knock  without  being  heard,"  I  suggested. 

"  That 's  it ;  you  've  hit  the  nail  plum'  on  the 
head.  I  jest  wanted  to  make  like  I 'd  been  and 
called  on  Mandy.  You  know  how  the  boys  play. 
They  straddle  a  cornstalk,  or  a  broom-handle,  and 
it 's  every  bit  and  grain  as  good  as  a  horse  to  them. 
I  wanted  to  play  like  I  'd  come  and  axed  after 
Mandy,  and  I 've  gone  and  made  it  too  natchal. 
I 'd  'a'  done  jest  as  well,  and  I 'd  'a'  felt  a  dang 
sight  better,  if  I 'd  'a'  stopped  at  the  corner  and 
sent  my  thoughts  in  'stead  of  me." 

Now,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  humor  of 
the  lad  jumped  queerly  with  mine.    I  had  lived 


184 


SISTER  JANE. 


his  experience  over  a  thousand  times,  but  had 
never  carried  it  to  the  point  of  knocking  at  the 
door.  I  had  sat  in  my  snug  room  and  sent  my 
thoughts  out  —  my  thoughts  that  were  so  swift  of 
foot  that  they  could  travel  across  the  garden  in  an 
instant,  and  so  light  of  hand  that  they  could  knock 
at  a  window  I  knew  and  make  no  more  noise  than 
a  flake  of  thistle  down.  I  knew  that  if  the  lad 
before  me  had  the  whimsies,  the  same  trouble  had 
seized  me,  the  difference  being  that  I  was  more 
secretive,  or  more  diplomatic,  to  use  a  pleasanter 
phrase.  All  this  passed  through  my  mind  while 
Jincy  Meadows  was  talking. 

"  Well,  we  all  play  at  the  game  of  make-believe 
more  or  less,"  I  said.  "  I  know  of  nothing  more 
comforting." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  inquired  Jincy.  "  All  the  folks 
say  I 'm  a  fool  except  a  passel  of  old  wimmen  that 
don't  know  no  better.  I  reckon  a  fool  gits  to  be  a 
wise  man  when  he  lams  how  to  keep  his  mouth 
shet." 

"That  is  about  the  way  of.it,"  I  answered. 

"I  'ma  leetle  worse  'n  the  balance  of  'em," 
Jincy  persisted,  "  'cause  they  play  make  -  belief 
where  nobody  can't  see  'em  except  them  that 
knows  'em.  But  look  at  me  !  When  - 1  start  the 
game,  I  run  everything  in  the  ground  and  break  it 
off.    Look  where  I  am  now !  " 

"You're  in  good  company,"  said  I,  "  though  I 
dare  say  you  think  you  might  be  in  better." 

He  shook  his  head,  thought  a  moment,  glanced 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A— CALLING.  185 

at  his  watch,  which  was  a  very  fine  one,  and  rose 
hurriedly.  "  I  must  go,"  he  said ;  "  it 's  a  quarter 
of  an  nour  later  than  it  was  a  while  ago,  and  I 've 
got  a  special  appointment  with  myself  on  the  other 
side  of  town." 

"  I  think  Mandy  would  be  glad  to  see  you,"  I 
suggested ;  "  but  if  you  are  obliged  to  go,  why  that 
is  another  matter.  What  message  shall  I  give  to 
her?" 

But  I  had  no  need  to  carry  a  message,  nor  Jincy 
time  to  invent  one,  for,  as  I  spoke,  the  inner  door 
opened,  and  Mandy  herself  came  into  the  room. 
The  surprise  was  mutual.  Jincy  backed  and 
bowed,  and  made  as  awkward  appearance  as  pos- 
sible. Mandy  blushed  furiously,  whether  with 
pleasure  or  with  sheer  embarrassment  it  was  im- 
possible to  say.  Being  a  woman,  however,  she 
was  the  first  to  recover  her  self-possession. 

"  Why,  howdy,  Jincy  ?  "  she  said  cordially,  and 
yet  somewhat  coolly,  seeing  that  Jincy  and  she 
had  known  each  other  all  their  lives.  Jincy  took 
her  extended  hand,  and  shook  it  with  formal"  po- 
liteness. 

"I  was  jest  a-talkin'  with  the  squire,  here," 
Jincy  stammered. 

"  How 's  ever 'body  an'  ever 'thing  ?  "  Mandy 
asked,  instinctively  looking  at  her  reflection  in  the 
glass  door  of  one  of  the  book-cases. 

"  Well,  speakin'  one  way,"  replied  Jincy,  "  ever'- 
body  an'  ever'thing  is  gittin'  on  tollable  well ;  an' 
speakin'  another  way,  they  ain't  gittin'  on  so  well." 


186 


SISTER  JANE. 


"How's  that?"  Mandy  inquired,  giving  him  a 
quick  glance. 

"  Easy  enough,"  answered  Jincy,  recovering  his 
equanimity  somewhat.  "  Some 's  rambled,  some 's 
ambled,  some 's  took  to  their  bed,  an'  some 's 
dead." 

I  wondered  if  Mandy,  perhaps  with  a  keener 
apprehension  in  this  matter  than  mine,  could 
understand  what  the  lad  was  driving  at.  She 
laughed,  and  was  about  to  say  something,  when 
sister  Jane  walked  in. 

"  Well,  the  Lord  'a'  mercy !  "  she  cried,  "  what 's 
all  this  ?  And  Jincy  Meadows,  too  !  Why,  Jincy, 
I  ain't  seen  you  in  a  coon's  age  —  not  since  the 
day  you  sassed  me  in  the  street  and  I  made  your 
daddy  spank  you  for  it.  That 's  what  you  got  for 
telling  the  truth  on  me.  I 've  been  sorry  for  it  a 
thousand  times,  Jincy.  Them  that  have  got  a  glib 
tongue,  man  or  woman,  have  the  right  to  use  it. 
I  hope  you  don't  bear  no  grudges,  Jincy." 

"  Why,  not  the  least  bit  in  the  world,  Miss 
Jane,"  answered  Jincy,  laughing.  "It  made  me 
think  about  you,  and  if  them  that  you  think  about 
is  worth  thinkin'  about  you  're  more  than  apt  to  like 
'em.  That 's  the  way  I 've  worked  it  out ;  but  I 
reckon  it 's  a  fool  way.    That 's  what  they  all  say." 

"  No,  no,  Jincy !  not  all,  nor  yet  half  of  'em," 
said  sister  Jane.  "  When  you  hear  me  say  you  're 
a  fool,  Jincy,  you  may  know  it 's  time  to  go  to  the 
asylum.  I  ain't  said  it  yet.  But  this  ain't  fair  — 
two  grown  men  against  one  lone  woman.  Come 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A— CALLING.  187 


in  my  room,  Mandy,  and  if  William  and  Jincy 
like  hunting  us  up,  why,  they  can  do  so  —  espe- 
cially Jincy." 

"  Well 'm,  I 've  got  some  business  on  t'  other 
side  of  town,"  explained  Jincy,  "  and  I  reckon  I 'd 
better  go  and  'tend  to  it." 

"  Business,  Jincy?  "  exclaimed  sister  Jane,  with 
good-humored  scorn.  "  Why,  you  never  had  a 
scrimption  of  business  in  all  your  born  days. 
Come  in  my  room  and  tell  me  all  the  news." 

Sister  Jane  was  a  constant  surprise  to  me,  as 
all  women  are  to  those  who  try  to  please  them,  but 
nothing  she  ever  did  (except  on  a  later  occasion) 
was  more  surprising  to  me  than  her  attitude  to- 
ward Jincy  Meadows.  I  traced  it  to  her  goodness 
of  heart,  for  Jincy  had  the  reputation  of  a  ne'er- 
do-well,  and  was  in  fact  leading  a  roving  and  aim- 
less existence,  though,  as  I  have  said,  his  father, 
Larkin  Meadows,  was  well  to  do,  owning  a  fine 
plantation  and  many  negroes.  The  majority  of 
people  thought  Jincy  was  a  half-wit  and  a  vaga- 
bond, and  only  a  few  suspected  that  the  lad  had  a 
mind  gifted  above  thet  common. 

With  an  embarrassment  that  was  almost  painful 
to  witness,  Jincy  followed  sister  Jane  and  Mandy. 
He  tried  to  relieve  his  feelings  by  turning  and 
winking  at  me  in  the  most  solemn  manner  as  I  fol- 
lowed the  three  down  the  hallway.  But  I  could 
see  that  this  attempt  at  comic  by-play  was  futile. 
•It  was  far  from  relieving  his  feelings.  He  had 
evidently  stumbled  into  a  predicament  (if  it  could 


188 


SISTEE  JANE. 


be  called  such)  where  his  drollery  had  lost  its 
flavor.  Yet  with  all  his  embarrassment,  which  I 
could  appreciate  to  the  fullest  extent,  he  managed 
to  put  a  good  face  on  his  inward  misery. 

Pausing  at  the  door  of  sister  Jane's  room,  he 
turned  to  me  and  said :  "I  reckon  you  ain't  never 
accidently  fell  in  the  creek  on  a  cold  mornin',  have 
you,  squire?"  Before  I  had  time  to  answer,  he 
went  into  the  room  and  I  followed. 

"  I  did  n't  have  any  hopes  of  seein'  the  ladies," 
remarked  Jincy  in  self-defense,  as  he  seated  him- 
self. "  I  jest  come  to  talk  to  the  squire  here  about 
a  little  p'int  of  law,  and  I  did  n't  have  time  to  git 
around  to  it  before  you  ladies  come  a-rushin'  in." 

"  Maybe  I  can  tell  you  more  about  it  than 
William,"  said  sister  Jane.  "William  has  his 
shingle  hung  out,  but  the  whole  neighborhood 
knows  that  I 'm  the  lawyer  of  the  family." 

"  Well  'm,  it 's  this,"  replied  Jincy,  winking  at 
me  :  "I  called  on  the  squire  for  to  ax  him  if  it 's 
lawful  for  a  country  chap  to  jine  in  with  these 
town  play-actors  that  call  themselves  '  The  Philo- 
logians.'  It 's  a  mighty  big  word  for  to  git  jined 
on  to  and  I  did  n't  know  but  there  was  some  sort 
of  a  trap  set  in  it  for  to  catch  greenies." 

"  La !  I  would  n't  jine  "it,  Jincy,  wi'  sech  a  name 
as  that,"  said  Mandy.  "  They  might  want  to  do 
you  some  bodily  harm  or  somethin'." 

"  The  what?  "  asked  sister  Jane. 

"  The  Philologians.    Ain't  it  so,  squire  ?  " 

Now  there  was  really  a  company  of  the  young 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A- CALLING.  189 


men  in  the  village  who  were  trying  to  arrange  for 
amateur  theatricals,  and  they  had  formed  a  club 
which,  without  regard  for  the  proper  meaning  of 
the  term  (or  a  great  deal,  according  to  the  way 
you  viewed  it),  was  called  "  The  Philologians." 
Therefore  I  promptly  and  heartily  corroborated 
Jincy's  statement. 

"  Then  there  was  another  question  I  wanted  to 
ax  the  squire,"  said  Jincy,  who  was  now  beginning 
to  feel  more  at  ease. 

"  Out  with  it,"  exclaimed  sister  Jane.  "I'm 
as  good  a  lawyer  as  William  any  day  in  the  week, 
and  Sunday  too." 

"You  ain't  answered  the  first  p'int,"  replied 
Jincy,  with  a  lift  of  his  eyebrows  that  changed  the 
usual  vacant  expression  of  his  face  to  one  of  ex- 
treme shrewdness. 

"  Good  !  "  I  cried,  laughing  to  see  the  effect  of 
Jincy's  reply  on  sister  Jane. 

"Maybe  she  can  .  tell  better  when  she  gits  the 
two  p'ints  together  and  jines  'em,"  suggested  Jincy. 

"  That 's  so,  Jincy,"  said  sister  Jane  with  an  air 
of  relief.  "  You  're  a  better  lawyer  right  now  than 
William." 

"  Well,  the  next  p'int  is  this,"  Jincy  went  on; 
"  they  want  me  to  be  a  lady.  I 've  got  to  have  a 
husband  named  Fazio,  and  I 've  got  to  put  on 
frocks  and  things,  and  strut  around  right  smart. 
Now,  what  I  want  to  know,  ain't  it  a  plum'  breakin' 
of  the  law  for  me  to  put  on  frocks  and  make  out 
I  Ve  got  a  ol'  man  ?  " 


190 


SISTER  JANE. 


Sister  Jane  laughed  heartily  and  then  grew 
solemn.  "  So  they  say  you  're  a  fool,  do  they, 
Jincy  ?  Well,  I  wish  all  the  people  I  know  had  as 
much  sense  as  you 've  got.  I 'd  like  'em  lots 
better  'n  I  do." 

"  Well  'm,  it 's  so  easy  to  have  what  folks  call 
sense,  that  I  ease  my  mind  by  playin'  the  fool." 

Mandy  laughed  at  this  remark,  but  there  was  a 
touch  of  uneasiness  in  her  manner,  for  at  that 
moment  Klibs  marched  in,  accompanied  by  Tommy 
Tinkins.  The  baby  stationed  himself  by  sister 
Jane's  knee  and  stared  solemnly  at  Jincy.  "  Oo 
dat,  Nanny  Dane  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Old  Zip  Coon !  "  replied  Jincy  so  suddenly 
that  Klibs  retreated  behind  sister  Jane's  chair,  and 
from  that  coign  of  vantage  smiled  serenely  at  the 
young  man.  Tommy  Tinkins,  however,  had  no 
share  in  Klibs's  alarm  or  bashfulness.  He  in- 
sisted on  jumping  to  Jincy's  knee,  and  was  not 
satisfied  even  with  that  demonstration  of  confidence, 
for  he  reared  himself  to  the  lad's  shoulder,  and 
rubbed  against  his  chin  and  neck. 

"  He 's  not  that  friendly  with  everybody  that 
comes  along,  Jincy,"  explained  sister  Jane. 
"  That  cat  knows  a  thing  or  two." 

"  Well 'm,  they  're  all  mighty  friendly  wi'  me," 
remarked  Jincy ;  "  cats,  dogs,  cattle,  hosses,  and 
all  the  wild  creeturs,  specially  the  birds." 

"What  about  that  mocking-bird  swinging  on 
the  cedar  out  there  ?  "  I  asked. 

Jincy  rose  and  glanced  at  him.    "  Why,  he 's 


JINCY  MEADOWS  COMES  A— CALLING.  191 


the  same  to  me  as  if  lie  was  in  a  cage,"  he  re- 
plied. "  I  can  walk  right  out  and  call  him  to  my 
hand." 

"  He  can  so ! "  protested  Mandy,  seeing  me 
laugh  as  if  the  lad  had  made  an  idle  jest. 

"  The  proof  of  the  pudding  is  chewing  the  bag," 
remarked  sister  Jane. 

"  That 's  so,"  said  Jincy,  "  and  I  '11  show  you. 
Come  out  and  see,  but  don't  git  too  close." 

So  we  adjourned  to  the  garden.  Jincy  went  near 
the  tree  and  gave  a  whistling  chirrup.  The  bird 
was  so  startled  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  call 
that  it  flew  to  the  top  of  the  cedar,  swung  there  a 
moment,  giving  forth  the  "  chuh  "  cry  that  stands 
for  anger,  alarm  and  surprise,  and  then  flew  wildly 
to  the  top  of  the  big  china  tree  on  the  sidewalk. 
Again  Jincy  gave  his  whistling  call,  and  the  bird 
came  fluttering  back,  this  time  making  as  if  it  would 
light  on  his  hat,  but  flying  away  again.  Once 
more  the  whistling  call  sounded,  and  the  bird 
fluttered  around  and  over  Jincy' s  head  in  the  most 
peculiar  way. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  cried  Jincy 
impatiently.  Then  his  eyes  fell  on  Tommy  Tin- 
kins,  who  was  crouching  at  his  feet  and  watching 
every  motion  of  the  bird  with  eager  eyes  and  trem- 
bling jaws.  "  Shucks  !  it 's  the  cat !  "  Jincy  said. 
"  I  know 'd  somethin'  was  wrong." 

I  enjoyed  the  spectacle  immensely  and  treasured 
the  incident  in  my  mind.  It  gave  me  a  new  and 
higher  opinion  of  Jincy.   He  begged  to  be  excused 


192 


SISTER  JANE. 


from  returning  into  the  house,  on  the  ground  that 
he  did  n't  want  to  wear  his  welcome  out.  So  we 
begged  him  to  call  again  whenever  he  felt  in  the 
humor,  and  he  went  away  after  formally  shaking 
hands  with  each  one,  even  the  baby. 


XIV. 

THE  COLONEL'S  WIFE. 

As  I  gradually  learned  the  story  of  Mandy  Sat- 
terlee's  girlhood  and  young  womanhood,  gathering 
it  from  her  own  remarks  and  from  occasional  con- 
versations with  sister  Jane,  the  more  deeply  I 
sympathized  with  her.  No  reparation  that  she 
could  make  so  far  as  the  world  was  concerned 
would  place  her  on  the  level  from  which  she  had 
fallen.  Though  this  was  a  heavy  penalty  to  pay, 
my  impression  is  that  she  never  questioned  the 
justice  of  the  social  verdict  that  imposes  such  a 
penalty.  I  sometimes  reflected  on  the  seeming 
paradox  that  repentance  could  restore  such  a  sin- 
ner to  the  favor  of  heaven,  but  not  to  the  forgive- 
ness of  society  and  the  world.  The  gates  of  heaven 
stand  ready  to  fly  open  before  the  most  abject,  the 
most  miserable,  the  most  woeful  of  those  who  vio- 
late the  laws  that  were  thundered  from  the  heights 
of  Sinai  if  they  come  repenting ;  but  the  laws  of 
the  world  are  more  inflexible  where  a  weak  woman 
is  concerned.  To  protest  against  this  were  worse 
than  foolish ;  what  these  laws  are  they  have  been, 
and  so  they  will  remain.  Whether  they  have  be- 
come a  part  of  the  social  order  as  the  result  of  in- 


194 


SISTER  JANE. 


stinct  or  reason,  't  were  bootless  to  inquire.  As 
they  stand  now,  so  they  would  stand  at  the  end  of 
all  discussion.  The  most  that  can  be  done  —  per- 
haps all  that  should  be  done  —  by  those  whose 
humanity  is  inclined  to  resent  the  sweeping  and 
implacable  verdict  that  society  renders  against  err- 
ing womankind,  is  to  mitigate  as  far  as  possible,  in 
special  cases,  the  anguish  of  those  who  (as  it  were) 
have  taken  so  wild  and  desperate  leap  in  the  dark, 
and  who  have  turned  again  toward  the  light,  bear- 
ing the  heavy  burden  of  repentance. 

That  Mandy  Satterlee  felt  and  understood  the 
source  and  nature  of  my  sympathy  (as  she  did 
that  of  sister  Jane's)  I  was  sure.  I  was  sure,  too, 
that  she  gathered  strength  from  the  fact  —  strength 
that  she  stood  sorely  in  need  of.  In  a  thousand 
ways,  none  of  them  obtrusive,  she  showed  her  ap- 
preciation and  gratitude.  It  is  curious,  too,  how 
one  small  spark  of  sympathy  will  kindle  into  a 
flame  of  charity.  If  we  had  shut  our  door  on 
Mandy  Satterlee  and  left  her  to  perish  in  the  cold, 
our  conduct  would  have  met  the  approval  of  many 
Christians  who  mistake  their  emotions  for  piety. 
If  we  had  taken  her  in,  cared  for  her  until  the 
storm  was  over,  and  then  set  her  adrift  on  the 
world,  after  discovering  the  source  of  her  despair, 
the  whole  community  would  have  applauded  and 
magnified  the  righteousness  of  our  judgment.  In- 
stead of  this,  sister  Jane,  with  my  hearty  approval, 
and  with  full  knowledge  of  the  step  she  was  tak- 
ing, had  made  Mandy  Satterlee  an  inmate  of  our 


THE  COLONEL'S  WIFE. 


195 


small  household.  This  naturally  excited  some 
gossip,  and  perhaps  severer  criticism  than  ever 
came  to  our  ears.  But,  strange  to  say,  in  course 
of  time  the  community  came  to  share  in  some  de- 
gree the  sympathy  which  we  felt  and  manifested 
toward  Mandy  Satterlee.  This  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  Mandy,  in  her  daily  walk,  in  her  comings 
and  her  goings,  more  than  justified  the  humane 
impulse  that  made  our  little  home  her  harbor.  It 
was  repentance  that  won  from  the  Lord  of  all  the 
forgiveness  that  made  the  life  of  Mary  of  Magdala 
beautiful,  and  the  repentance  of  Mandy  Satterlee 
was  no  less  sincere.  That  much  we  knew,  and  in 
time  the  village  knew  it. 

I  hope  that  this  was  due  to  our  example,  and 
yet  it  may  have  been  partly  due  to  the  attitude  of 
Mrs.  Billiard,  Mary's  mother,  whose  seclusion  was 
regarded  by  a  majority  of  the  women  in  the  com- 
munity as  exclusiveness.  They  criticised  her  for 
it,  attributing  it  to  pride,  but  secretly  looked  up  to 
her  as  a  social  model,  her  family  being  of  the  best 
and  her  fortune  an  unusually  comfortable  one. 
Now  it  happened  that  Mrs.  Bullard  ("  Mrs.  Colo- 
nel Bullard,"  the  village  called  her)  had  appar- 
ently taken  a  great  fancy  to  Mandy  Satterlee,  and 
never  came  slipping  through  the  garden  to  see 
sister  Jane  (arrayed  as  if  she  were  going  to  a 
party)  but  she  asked  after  our  charge,  and  some- 
times hunted  through  the  house  until  she  found 
her.  I  observed  that  Mandy  always  disappeared 
when  the  Colonel's  wife  whisked  in  at  the  door. 


196 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


Whether  she  stood  in  awe  of  the  lady's  fine  jewels, 
or  of  the  fact  that  she  was  very  rich,  or  that  she 
belonged  to  what  the  common  people  called  the 
aristocracy,  or  whether  she  doubted  Mrs.  Bullard's 
sympathy,  or  was  overwhelmed  by  her  individual- 
ity, I  never  knew  nor  had  occasion  to  inquire. 
But  it  is  certain  that  the  young  woman  always  met 
the  lady  with  extreme  embarrassment.  Avoiding 
her  whenever  possible,  Mandy  always  maintained 
in  Mrs.  Bullard's  presence  a  reserve  that  bordered 
on  sullenness,  and  was  dumb  but  for  the  few  awk- 
ward monosy]lables  that  could  be  wrung  from  her. 
But  this  made  no  difference  in  Mrs.  Bullard's  atti- 
tude. If  she  noticed  Mandy's  embarrassment  at 
all  she  no  doubt  interpreted  it  as  a  tribute  to  her 
position  in  the  small  world  of  the  village. 

If  the  lady  was  familiar  with  Mandy's  history, 
she  got  no  inkling  of  it  from  sister  Jane.  Yet  she 
must  have  heard  or  suspected  the  truth,  for  I  often 
noticed  that  she  was  more  gracious  and  conde- 
scending to  the  young  woman  than  to  many  who 
were  more  nearly  her  equals  in  family  and  fortune. 
Delicate  as  she  was,  the  Colonel's  wife  had  dig- 
nity, and  to  spare.  She  was  accomplished,  too, 
and  could  make  herself  agreeable.  There  were 
moments,  indeed,  when  she  was  a  most  charming 
woman,  and  at  such  times  she  reminded  me  of 
Mary. 

On  one  occasion,  Colonel  Cephas  Bullard  being 
away,  I  found,  it  necessary  to  consult  her  about 
some  business  for  a  client  of  mine.    I  foimd  her 


THE    COLONEL'S  WIFE. 


197 


cold,  barely  polite,  cautious,  calculating,  and 
shrewd.  When  the  business  was  concluded,  —  or, 
rather,  when  the  talk  about  it  came  to  an  end,  for 
she  would  or  could  do  nothing  to  satisfy  my  client 
—  she  offered  me  a  glass  of  wine,  sang  a  little  song 
for  me  at  the  harp  (which  I  had  heard  Mary  do 
better),  and  made  herself  so  thoroughly  agreeable 
that  I  carried  away  a  better  impression  of  her  than 
I  had  entertained  before.  And  yet  somehow  I  felt 
that  I  had  been  played  with.  Either  she  had  be- 
trayed her  true  character  in  discussing  a  business 
question,  with  which  she  showed  unexpected  famil- 
iarity, or  she  had  assumed  it  for  the  purpose  of 
baffling  me.  The  incident  gave  me,  indeed,  a  re- 
spect for  her  ability  that  I  had  never  had,  but  it 
also  gave  me  fresh  reasons  for  doubting  her  sincer- 
ity. It  was  nothing  to  me  whether  or  no  she  was 
sincere,  but  the  less  reason  we  have  for  mistrusting 
people,  the  more  comfortable  we  feel  in  their  pre- 
sence. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  Mrs.  Bullard  was  singularly 
gracious  to  Mandy  Satterlee.  When  twilight  be- 
gan to  deepen  into  dusk,  it  was  nothing  unusual  to 
hear  a  rustle  in  the  hall,  and  to  see  the  Colonel's 
wife  whisk  in  at  the  door,  always  pale,  always  com- 
posed, and  yet  as  nimble  and  as  light  in  her  move- 
ments as  a  child.  And  she  always  had  some  ex- 
cuse for  her  appearance.  She  wanted  to  see  sister 
Jane  about  this,  that,  or  the  other,  but  always 
about  something  that  was  of  no  importance  what- 
ever.   If  Mary  chanced  to  be  talking  with  sister 


198 


SISTER  JANE. 


Jane,  then  Mrs.  Bullard  had  come  for  Mary.  If 
Mary  was  at  home,  then  her  mother  had  come  be- 
cause of  that  fact ;  or  she  had  slipped  away  to  take 
a  little  airing,  or  because  the  Colonel  had  company. 
It  is  enough  to  make  one  dizzy  to  recall  the  changes 
she  rung  in  order  to  impress  us  with  the  idea  that 
her  visits  were  either  urgent  or  accidental.  On 
one  occasion  I  heard  sister  Jane  say  to  her  some- 
what sarcastically :  — 

"  Well,  Fanny,  some  day  when  you  have  n't  got 
anything  to  trouble  you,  just  pick  up  and  come 
because  you 've  a  mind  to.  It  would  look  a  heap 
better,  and  you 'd  feel  lots  more  comfortable.  I 
would,  I  know." 

"  Oh,  I  would  dearly  love  to  come,  Jane,"  re- 
plied the  Colonel's  wife,  "but  with  such  a  large 
house  to  look  after,  and  some  one  always  calling 
for  the  keys  to  get  something  out  or  to  put  some- 
thing away,  it  is  impossible.  The  strain  is  terri- 
ble, Jane." 

"It  must  be,"  rejoined  sister  Jane,  "  'specially 
when  you  ain't  got  more  than  six  dozen  fat  and 
good-for-nothing  niggers  to  look  after  your  prem- 
ises for  you." 

"  Well,  you  know  how  Colonel  Bullard  is,  Jane," 
said  the  lady.  "  He  will  have  a  yardful  of  ser- 
vants, three  or  four  in  the  house,  and  more  on  the 
lot.  He  thinks  they  will  be  a  help  to  me,  but 
they  are  hardly  any  help  at  all.  I  only  have  so 
many  more  to  look  after.  But  if  I  complain  he 
will  be  sure  to  imagine  that  I  don't  appreciate  his 


THE  COLONEL'S  WIFE. 


199 


thoughtfulness,  though  I  am  just  as  grateful  as  I 
can  be.    You  know  how  men  are,  Jane." 

"  No,  I  don't,  and  I  'in  glad  I  don't,"  sister  Jane 
responded  with  emphasis.  "  I  know  jest  enough 
about  'em  not  to  want  to  know  any  more." 

"  Why,  here 's  Mr.  William,"  said  the  Colonel's 
wife,  waving  her  white  and  jeweled  hand  in  my 
direction.  "I'm  sure  he  ought  to  give  you  a 
favorable  opinion  of  the  lords  of  creation."  She 
made  a  queer,  coquettish  little  gesture,  as  she 
spoke. 

"  I  don't  count  William  among  'em,"  remarked 
sister  Jane.  "  More  than  that,  I  've  had  the  rais- 
ing of  him.  William  and  the  cat  know  mighty 
well  when  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  my  broom- 
handle." 

While  she  was  talking,  the  Colonel's  wife  stood 
close  to  sister  Jane  in  an  attitude  almost  affection- 
ate, touching  her  lightly  on  the  arm  with  one  hand, 
the  other  being  free  to  gesture,  or  to  play  with  a 
corner  of  the  wide  lace  that  the  Colonel's  wife 
always  wore  over  her  bosom.  Such  would  have 
been  her  attitude  with  Mandy  Satterlee,  but  Mandy 
invariably  managed  to  remain  out  of  reach  of  the 
lady's  hand. 

The  Colonel's  wife  was  always  beautifully,  even 
daintily,  dressed,  reminding  me  of  pictures  I  had 
seen.  Her  hair  was  very  fine,  having  the  yellow 
gleam  of  amber  about  it,  and  she  wore  it  in  curls 
that  were  caught  behind  her  ears  and  hung  on  the 
back  of  her  neck  and  shoulders  with  fine  effect. 


200 


SISTER  JANE. 


On  her  head  she  wore  a  square  of  rich  lace  that 
was  wide  enough  to  resemble  a  matron's  cap,  but 
was  caught  up  at  one  corner  with  a  bow  of  pink 
or  pale  blue  ribbon,  which  gave  it  a  jaunty  and 
picturesque  effect.  Pink  and  pale  blue  were  the 
colors  of  the  frocks  she  wore,  and  though  I  knew 
not  the  names  of  the  stuffs  they  were  fashioned 
from,  I  judged  by  their  lustre  and  by  their  silken 
rustle  that  they  were  rich  and  costly  fabrics. 

It  was  said  when  her  little  boy  disappeared  so 
mysteriously,  that  the  Colonel's  wife  was  on  the 
border  of  distraction.  I  never  doubted  this,  and 
for  that  reason  it  was  something  of  a  shock  to  me 
when  she  came  whisking  through  the  garden  some 
time  afterwards,  her  pink  frock  gleaming  in  the 
dusk  and  her  blue  ribbons  fluttering  in  the  air. 
It  was  something  of  a  shock,  but  common  sense 
prevented  me  from  rendering  a  harsh  judgment 
against  her.  The  sombre  habiliments  that  grief 
chooses  to  employ  as  its  signal  were  never  much  to 
my  taste,  making  (as  it  were)  too  much  of  an  out- 
ward show.  But  as  these  are  matters  to  be  settled 
by  individual  taste  or  preference,  I  felt 't  would  ill 
become  me  to  criticise  the  one  extreme  or  the 
other.  Every  heart  knoweth  its  own  sorrow,  and 
what  one  may  desire  to  parade  another  may  strive 
to  conceal. 

There  were  lines  of  trouble  and  suffering  in  the 
lady's  face  which  all  her  vivacity,  natural  or  as- 
sumed, could  not  hide ;  and  these  added  to  her 
seclusion  ought  to  have  told  the  whole  stor}7.  But 


THE   COL  OX  EL'S  WIFE. 


201 


there  were  moments  when  I  doubted  all  these  evi- 
dences, and  when  my  sympathy  was  somewhat 
repelled.  I  had  vague  suspicions  that  refused  to 
frame  themselves  in  intelligible  thoughts.  I  felt, 
in  some  mysterious  way,  that  the  Colonel's  wife 
regarded  me  with  contempt ;  and  I  was  almost  sure 
she  knew  I  doubted  her  sincerity.  Yet  with  all 
this,  I  admitted  to  myself  that  possibly  I  was  un- 
just to  her.  As  for  her  dress,  I  could  understand 
how  that  might  be  a  passion  with  her,  her  one 
source  of  recreation  and  enjoyment. 

It  was  certain  that  she  did  not  wear  her  rich 
fabrics  for  the  sake  of  display,  for  she  went  no- 
where. I  knew  from  the  gossip  of  the  negroes  that 
she  would  spend  an  entire  afternoon  before  her 
mirror,  lighting  a  candle  to  enable  her  to  see  how 
to  give  herself  the  last  touches  that  tell  of  perfec- 
tion. This  done  she  would  whisk  through  the 
garden,  spend  half  an  hour  with  sister  Jane,  whisk 
back  again,  retire  to  her  room,  and  have  her  even- 
ing meal  sent  to  her. 

Her  daughter  Mary  resembled  her  in  nothing 
except  daintiness  of  dress.  But  where  the  mother 
chose  colors,  the  daughter  preferred  contrasts, 
whereby  no  single  color  was  left  as  a  mark  for  the 
eye,  but  harmonized  with  its  surroundings,  as  in  a 
fine  painting.  The  Colonel's  wife  was  fond  of 
finery  and  of  the  frills  and  furbelows  that  the  fem- 
inine hand  knows  so  well  how  to  arrange.  They 
were  all  in  good  taste,  too,  —  all  possessing  the 
quality  of  daintiness.    But  the  effect  was  not  so 


202 


SISTEH  JANE. 


fresli  and  wholesome,  and  not  nearly  so  harmonious, 
as  her  daughter's  refined  simplicity  of  dress. 

The  contrast  between  them  must  have  been 
apparent  to  the  most  casual  observer  who  chanced 
to  see  them  together.  It  was  not  by  any  means 
confined  to  the  choice  and  arrangement  of  the  ap- 
parel they  wore,  but  was  to  be  seen  in  their  man- 
ner and  attitude.  The  mother  was  airy,  almost 
frisky,  and  had  some  curious  tricks  of  face  and 
hand  such  as  belong  to  play-acting  women  who  are 
showing  how  cleverly  they  can  assume  a  part.  Her 
eyes  evaded  yours,  however  constantly  they  might 
rest  on  your  face,  and  she  insisted  on  conversing 
on  the  most  frivolous  topics,  though  I  knew  she 
was  a  woman  of  uncommon  ability.  Mary,  on  the 
other  hand,  except  on  rare  occasions,  was  repose  it- 
self. Her  lustrous  eyes  were  steady  as  twin  stars 
when  they  looked  at  you,  and  sincerity  and  inno- 
cence shone  in  them.  Whenever  she  lifted  her 
hand  in  gesture  (the  most  beautiful  hand  I  have 
ever  seen)  it  seemed  to  illuminate  and  make  more 
effective  whatever  she  was  saying.  She  was  viva- 
cious —  sometimes  even  prankish  ;  but  behind  it 
all  was  sincerity,  the  touchstone.  You  knew  she 
was  not  playing  a  part,  or  taking  your  measure,  or 
trying  to  deceive  you ;  but  that  she  was  true  to  her 
own  innocent  nature  and  disposition. 

By  some  means,  I  knew  not  how,  I  conceived  the 
idea,  that  there  was  a  measure  of  secret  antagonism 
on  the  part  of  the  mother  toward  the  daughter.  The 
idea  could  not  have  grown  out  of  the  differences  of 


THE  COLONEL'S  WIFE. 


203 


character  and  temperament  that  lay  between  them, 
for  I  knew  well  that  opposite  natures  are  almost 
invariably  attracted  to  one  another.  No  ;  it  was 
some  sign  or  symptom  that  the  mother  manifested 
—  a  sudden,  an  unexpected  and  a  momentary  lift- 
ing of  the  veil  (if  I  may  say  so),  that  surprised 
me  into  the  suspicion  that  this  fine  lady  was  play- 
ing the  part  of  a  mother,  as  she  seemed  to  be  play- 
ing other  parts.  Perhaps  the  suggestion  forced 
itself  upon  me  in  too  downright  a  fashion,  but  I  was 
ever  awkward  at  splitting  hairs,  even  in  an  argu- 
ment in  the  court-house.  I  cannot  recall,  even  to 
my  own  mind,  save  in  a  blurred  and  indistinct 
way,  the  sign  or  symptom  that  stirred  my  suspi- 
cions to  activity ;  but,  whatever  it  was,  it  made  on 
me  a  deep  and  a  lasting  impression. 

I  said  a  while  ago  that  it  was  nothing  to  me 
whether  or  no  the  Colonel's  wife  was  sincere. 
Perhaps  that  is  too  flat  a  statement.  There  were, 
indeed,  many  reasons  why  I  was  interested  in 
studying  her  character  and  in  trying  to  get  at  the 
heart  of  the  mystery  that  she  presented  to  my  im- 
agination. For  one  thing,  it  was  ever  my  habit  to 
study  human  nature  in  the  persons  of  my  acquaint- 
ances to  measure  their  motives  by  their  actions 
and  to  weigh  them  against  what  they  were,  what 
they  pretended  to  be,  and  what  they  ought  to 
have  been.  Rightly  pursued,  this  is  no  mean 
diversion.  Through  knowing  others  I  sought  to 
know  myself  —  to  separate  my  outward  self  from 
my  true  self.    I  found  that  the  more  I  studied 


204 


SISTER  JANE. 


human  nature  in  others  the  more  likely  I  was  to 
recognize  it  in  myself.  For  another  thing  (to  return 
to  the  Colonel's  wife),  the  lady  was  Mary's  mother, 
and  it  pleased  me  to  try  to  discern  in  the  mother 
some  mark  on  which  I  could  lay  my  finger  and  say, 
"  Heredity  has  transmitted  this  to  the  daughter." 
But  there  were  few  such  marks,  and  no  wonder. 
Mary  was  so  truly  her  own  true  self  —  as  original 
in  her  mind  as  she  was  unique  in  her  beauty  — 
that  my  studies  in  this  direction  came  to  naught. 
But  I  never  wholly  gave  them  up  while  opportunity 
for  comparison  remained. 

Colonel  Bullard  had  not  married  early  in  life. 
He  was  next  to  the  youngest  of  several  sons,  who 
as  they  reached  their  majority  drifted  away  from 
the  parental  roof  and  went  west,  some  to  Alabama, 
and  some  to  the  rich  Mississippi  bottoms,  each  car- 
rying with  him  (in  the  shape  of  negroes,  horses, 
mules,  and  wagons)  a  portion  of  the  family  estate, 
which  was  a  large  one.  But  when  the  Colonel  came 
of  age,  he  elected  to  remain  on  the  big  plantation, 
that  stretched  up  and  down  the  Oconee  River  to 
the  extent  of  several  thousand  acres.  He  had  two 
good  reasons  for  this,  as  I  have  heard  said :  his 
father  was  growing  old  and  feeble  (his  mother 
being  already  dead),  and  his  younger  brother  was 
too  young  to  take  charge  of  the  business  of  the 
estate.  This  younger  brother  was  but  fifteen,  and 
away  at  college,  according  to  Mrs.  Beshears  (who 
kindly  furnished  me  all  the  facts  that  lay  beyond 
my  memory  and  experience),  when  Cephas  Bullard 


THE  COLONEL'S  WIFE. 


205 


reached  the  years  of  manhood.  So  that  the  latter 
had  no  choice  but  to  remain  on  the  plantation  and 
take  control  of  affairs,  which,  as  may  be  supposed, 
he  already  had  well  in  hand. 

By  the  time  Clarence  Bullard,  the  youngest 
brother,  had  reached  the  age  of  seventeen,  the 
father  died,  and  Cephas  Bullard  applied  in  due 
form  for  letters  ot  administration  on  the  estate, 
and  was  appointed  guardian  of  the  minor  brother. 
After  the  usual  course,  the  business  of  the  estate 
was  finally  wound  up ;  the  elder  brothers  came 
forward  again  and  expressed  their  satisfaction  at 
the  way  matters  had  been  managed  ;  each  received 
his  fair  portion,  if  any  portion  was  still  due;  and 
Cephas  Bullard  was  relieved  of  the  duties  and 
responsibilities  of  administrator.  He  retained  the 
home  place  and  a  large  part  of  the  plantation,  and 
was  still  the  guardian  of  Clarence  Bullard. 

Now,  when  Clarence  returned  home  from  college 
to  attend  his  father's  funeral,  he  remained  for  sev- 
eral weeks,  and  it  soon  became  bruited  about  that 
he  had  learned  more  about  drinking,  gambling, 
and  cock-fighting  than  was  usually  to  be  imbibed 
from  a  course  in  the  classics.  Public  opinion, 
hearing  of  some  of  his  frolics  and  other  escapades, 
came  promptly  to  the  conclusion  that  Clarence  was 
as  reckless  a  blade  as  the  county  had  ever  har- 
bored. There  was  also  a  great  deal  of  wonderment 
expressed,  for  the  boy  was  handsome  and  clever, 
and  seemed  to  be  well  disposed.  Mrs.  Beshears's 
memory  was  to  the  effect  that  he  was  as  pretty  as 


206 


SISTER  JANE. 


a  picture,  with  black,  curling  hair,  fine  eyes,  a 
beautifully  shaped  mouth  and  chin.  Many  young 
ladies  were  enamored  of  him  in  spite  of  his  reck- 
lessness. 

He  returned  to  college,  but  the  taste  of  freedom 
he  had  had  was  too  much  for  him.  He  grew  rebel- 
lious, and  the  authorities  expelled  him  in  sheer  self- 
defense.  He  came  home  again,  caring  (it  is  said) 
as  little  for  his  disgrace  as  possible.  For  a  period 
of  several  months  he  kept  the  old  people  groaning 
and  the  young  ladies  blushing  over  the  reports  of 
his  deviltry.  And  evil  is  an  element  of  such  vig- 
orous constitution,  that  rumors  of  his  wild  exploits 
still  remained  current  after  the  man  himself  had 
disappeared  and  was  all  but  forgotten.  It  was 
only  necessary  to  set  the  old  people's  tongues  to 
wagging,  and  Clarence  Bullard  and  his  gray  mare 
went  tearing  through  the  country  again.  Time's 
perspective  has  such  a  softening  influence  on  cold 
facts,  that  he  lived  in  my  mind  as  the  most  roman- 
tic rascal  I  had  ever  heard  of  outside  the  lids  of 
my  books. 

But  he  finally  disappeared  and  was  seen  no 
more,  —  whereupon  gossip,  that  must  needs  have 
many  dainty  giblets  of  scandal  to  stimulate  its 
digestion,  be^an  to  announce  in  an  authoritative 
way  that  there  had  been  a  stormy  scene  betwixt 
Clarence  and  Cephas,  and  that  the  elder  brother 
had  driven  the  other  from  beneath  his  father's  roof 
without  a  penny.  A  great  many  other  things  were 
said  (as  I  have  been  told),  some  sensational  and 


THE  COLONEL'S  WIFE. 


207 


all  scandalous.  But  these  tilings  are  not  at  all  to 
the  purpose  of  this  narrative. 

Cephas  Bullard  remained  on  his  plantation, 
looked  "carefully  after  his  interests,  and  thrived. 
He  devoted  himself  so  closely  to  his  business  that 
his  wealth  grew  apace.  By  the  time  he  was  thirty, 
he  had  made  as  much  money  as  his  father  had 
been  able  to  make  after  years  of  hard  labor.  By 
that  time,  too,  he  came  to  be  known  as  the  bach- 
elor planter,  and  he  showed  no  more  disposition  to 
marry  at  that  age  than  he  had  shown  at  twenty. 
He  set  up  a  grist-mill  on  his  place,  and  invested  in 
a  wool-carding  machine.  He  raised  his  own  mules 
and  horses,  and  they  were  fine  ones.  He  made  his 
own  corn,  meat,  and  all  his  plantation  supplies  ex- 
cept the  clothing  necessary  for  his  negroes.  He 
bought  shoes,  cloth,  hats,  and  blankets  from  the 
wholesale  houses.  By  the  time  he  was  thirty-live 
he  had  formed  the  habit  of  going  north  every  year, 
for  the  purpose  of  laying  in  these  supplies. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  trips  (and  while  the  stage- 
coach was  journeying  through  Virginia)  that  he 
met  the  lady  who  became  his  wife,  and  she  herself 
is  the  authority  for  the  facts  concerning  that  epi- 
sode. I  heard  her  tell  them  to  sister  Jane  with 
many  dainty  gestures,  and  in  a  manner  not  with- 
out suggestions  of  humor.  Her  voice  was  soft, 
low,  and  well  modulated,  and  she  made  it  more 
effective  by  the  air  of  vivacity  I  have  tried  to  de- 
scribe. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  Cecil  Brandon  of  Bran- 


208 


SISTER  JANE. 


don-on-the-James  (she  pronounced  it  Brondon-on- 
the-Jeems),  and  must  have  been  a  very  lively  young 
lady  according  to  her  own  account,  —  fond  of  horses, 
dogs,  and  of  going  to  the  play  when  the  players 
strolled  to  Richmond. 

"  I  was  nothing  but  a  child,  Jane  —  only  seven- 
teen. J ust  think  of  that,  —  positively  a  mere 
child.  I  can  see  it  all  now,  but  then  I  thought  I 
was  a  grown  lady.  That  was  my  father's  fault. 
You  have  heard  of  Cecil  Brandon,  of  Brandon-on- 
the-Jeems.  The  family  is  older  than  the  history 
of  England.  He  was  the  best  man  that  ever  lived, 
Jane  —  a  perfect  gentleman.  But  he  was  like  all 
gentlemen.  For  months  —  yes,  months,  Jane  — 
he 'd  allow  me  to  have  my  own  way,  never  cross- 
ing me  in  anything,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  — 
p-r-r-t" — she  made  a  sharp  chirping  sound  with 
her  lips  —  "  his  temper  would  be  gone,  and  peace 
would  take  wings  and  fly  from  the  place.  At  such 
times  he  forbade  my  most  innocent  amusements. 
He  was  a  man,  Jane,  and  you  know  a  man  does  n't 
know  when  to  be  rough  and  when  to  be  tender. 
Why,  if  I  were  a  man,  I'd  be  mean  and  cruel 
sometimes,  but  always  at  the  right  time." 

The  Colonel's  wife  laughed  as  she  said  this,  and 
her  eyes  sparkled  almost  as  brightly  as  the  jewels 
that  flashed  on  her  fingers. 

The  upshot  of  it  was  that  once,  when  Cecil 
Brandon,  of  Brandon-on-the-James,  was  in  one  of 
his  tantrums,  Fanny  Brandon  mounted  her  horse, 
rode  to  Richmond  to  the  house  of  a  kinsman,  and 


THE  COLO  NEDS  WIFE. 


209 


sat  out  the  play  that  night  in  borrowed  finery. 
Her  father  concluded  that  this  prank  was  part  of 
a  disposition  that  should  be  tamed,  whereupon  he 
had  his  daughter's  trunk  packed,  bundled  her  in 
the  carriage,  got  in  himself,  and  set  out  on  a  jour- 
ney to  Washington,  intending  to  take  Fanny  to  a 
convent  school  in  F>altimore. 

"  Think  of  that,  Jane  !  "  exclaimed  the  Colonel's 
wife  in  telling  of  the  episode.  "  Think  of  a  con- 
vent for  a  young  girl  who  had  been  used  to  having 
her  own  way  except  at  odd  times  !  " 

The  second  day  the  carriage  broke  down,  and 
the  break  was  so  serious  that  it  could  be  mended 
neither  by  Cecil  Brandon  nor  his  negro  driver. 
Still  overwhelmed  in  the  tantrums,  Mr.  Brandon 
determined  to  wait  for  the  stage-coach,  which  they 
had  passed  on  the  road  an  hour  or  two  before.  He 
bade  the  negro  driver  to  take  the  horses  home,  paid 
a  farmer  not  far  from  the  roadside  to  haul  the 
wreck  of  the  carriage  away  and  hold  it  until  sent 
for,  hailed  the  stage-coach  when  it  came  along,  and 
with  little  or  no  palaver,  found  a  place  for  Fanny 
Brandon  inside,  while  he  rode  on  top.  Evidently 
he  was  a  man  who  did  even  small  things  in  a  large 
way,  and  before  such  men  all  difficulties  are  apt  to 
disappear. 

An  accommodating  passenger  surrendered  his 
seat  inside  to  pretty  Fanny  Brandon,  and  when  she 
had  fairly  settled  herself,  the  first  man  on  whom 
her  eyes  fell  was  Colonel  Cephas  Bullard,  the  man 
who  was  to  be  her  husband. 


210 


SISTER  JANE. 


" 1  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,  Jane.  Why, 
he  was  old  enough  to  be  my  father  ;  but  you  see 
how  it  is  ;  we  never  know  what  Providence  has  in 
store  for  us." 

Cecil  Brandon,  swinging  his  legs  from  the  top 
of  the  coach,  was  not  long  in  finding  congenial 
company,  and  was  soon  telling  jokes  and  laughing 
heartily.  He  found,  too,  some  gentlemen  of  the 
green  cloth,  and  as  few  things  suited  him  better 
than  a  long  toddy  and  a  brisk  game  of  cards  (the 
statement  is  his  daughter's  word  for  word),  he 
made  arrangements  for  a  tussle  with  chance  when 
Washington  was  reached. 

Now,  Fanny  Brandon,  though  she  was  doubtless 
looking  very  pretty,  was  far  from  happy,  and  when 
she  heard  her  father's  jolly  laugh  nothing  would 
do  but  she  must  fall  to  crying  softly.  This  being 
so,  it  was  natural  that  Colonel  Cephas  Bullard, 
sitting  opposite,  should  extend  his  sympathies,  and 
offer  his  services,  and  make  all  effort  to  console 
her.  He  was  so  successful  that  Fanny  Brandon 
was  soon  able  to  smile  shyly  at  him.  At  the  next 
stopping-place,  which  was  a  tavern  where  they  had 
dinner,  Colonel  Bullard  made  bold  to  introduce 
himself  to  Cecil  Brandon,  and  it  turned  out  — 
these  Virginians  having  a  great  knack  of  knowing 
in  person  or  by  repute  everybody  that  is  worth 
knowing  —  that  Mr.  Brandon  knew  of  the  Bill- 
iards and  had  a  good  part  of  their  family  history 
at  his  tongue's  end.  Indeed,  he  hinted  that  there 
was  kinship  somewhere  in  the  background. 


THE  COLONEL'S   WIFE.  211 

When  the  travelers  reached  Washington,  Cecil 
Brandon  placed  his  daughter  in  charge  of  Colonel 
Cephas  Bullard,  begging  him  to  see  her  safe  to 
Baltimore  and  to  the  conventual  school,  and  betook 
himself  to  the  card-table.  This  was  providential. 
Fanny  Brandon  had  no  more  idea  of  entering  the 
convent  school  than  she  had  of  flying,  and  when 
they  arrived  in  Baltimore  she  turned  to  Colonel 
Bullard  and  said  (I  can  imagine  with  what  a 
charming  air)  :  — 

"  I  '11  not  go  on,  and  I  can't  go  back  ;  so  what 
shall  I  do  ?  " 

Colonel  Cephas  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  was 
helpless.  He  could  not  command,  and  he  would 
not  desert.  While  he  was  considering  what  was 
proper  to  do  under  these  unparalleled  circum- 
stances, Fanny  Brandon  threw  her  head  back  de- 
fiantly, crying  out :  "  I  wish  some  respectable 
gentleman  would  ask  me  to  marry  him  !  " 

Colonel  Cephas  strode  up  and  down  a  few  mo- 
ments, paused  in  front  of  the  young  lady  and  said 
simply :  "  Would  you  marry  me?" 

" Would  I?"  exclaimed  Fanny  Brandon,  and 
placed  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  was  a  queer  courtship, 
Jane  ?  "  the  Colonel's  wife  paused  to  inquire  when 
narrating  these  circumstances.  And  sister  Jane 
replied :  "  There  's  nothing  quare,  Fanny,  after 
you  get  used  to  it." 

They  married,  and  Colonel  Bullard,  instead  of 
going  on  to  New  York,  went  back  to  Washington 


212 


SISTER  JANE. 


with  liis  wife,  sought  out  Cecil  Brandon,  of  Bran- 
don -  on  -  the  -  James,  and  informed  him  that  his 
daughter  Fanny  Brandon  had  now  become  Mrs. 
Bullard.  Mr.  Brandon  was  paralyzed  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  it  was  the  fall  of  an  eyelash  whether  he 
would  seize  Colonel  Cephas  by  the  throat  and  cane 
him.  But  Brandon's  humor  came  to  the  rescue. 
He  burst  into  a  roaring  laugh. 

"  Damn  it,  sir,  give  me  your  hand  !  I  like  you ! 
I'  11  lay  you  five  to  one,  sir,  that  Fan  popped  the 
question.  Come,  Fan!  Didn't  you?"  And 
when  Fan  demurely  admitted  it,  Brandon  of  Bran- 
don-on-the-James  roared  so  loudly  that  the  win- 
dows of  the  room  rattled. 

That  was  the  way  Fanny  Brandon  became  Mrs. 
Cephas  Bullard.  The  Colonel  brought  her  to  his 
plantation  home  —  a  very  fine  place,  not  far  from 
the  Oconee.  But  after  a  time  she  grew  tired  of 
the  quiet  life  ;  whereupon  the  Colonel  bought  the 
Clopton  mansion  in  the  village,  furnished  it  in 
grand  style,  and  brought  his  young  bride  there. 
The  society  she  found  here  was  probably  different 
from  that  she  had  been  used  to  in  Virginia  ;  it  may 
have  lacked  refinement,  as  it  certainly  wanted  gay- 
ety ;  but  for  one  reason  or  the  other,  or  for  all  to- 
gether, young  Mrs.  Bullard  gradually  secluded 
herself. 


XV. 


JINCY  IN  THE  NEW  GROUND. 

Such  was  the  account  the  Colonel's  wife  gave 
of  her  courtship  and  marriage.  For  a  long  time  I 
suspected  that,  following  the  impulse  of  some 
whimsical  notion,  such  as  frequently  takes  control 
of  the  feminine  mind,  she  had  exaggerated  the  af- 
fair by  foreshortening  some  of  the  details  that 
otherwise  might  have  given  it  a  perspective  more 
satisfying  to  those  who  stickle  over  proprieties.  I 
suspected  that  she  desired  to  draw  a  strong  con- 
trast between  her  headstrong  and  wayward  youth 
and  the  soberness  and  discretion  that  marked  her 
career  as  a  matron  ;  or  that  she  intended  to  mag- 
nify her  temper  and  courage  when  a  girl,  in  order 
to  impress  us  with  her  ability  to  carry  herself 
boldly,  though  she  might  now  be  delicate  and 
dainty  in  her  ways  and  desires.  But  gradually  I 
came  to  believe  that  she  had  given  the  facts  simply 
and  with  no  other  desire  than  to  relieve  her  mind 
and  to  place  herself  on  a  semi-confidential  footing 
with  sister  Jane  ;  for  after  that,  and  at  various  odd 
times,  she  told  us  more  of  her  history,  which  need 
not  be  repeated  here  at  any  length,  since  the  part 
she  played  in  the  small  history  I  have  set  out  to 


214 


SISTER  JANE. 


chronicle  was  unimportant  up  to  almost  the  last 
moment,  when  Fanny  Brandon  herself  stepped  out 
of  the  past  (as  it  were)  and  gave  us  cause  for  spe- 
cial wonder.  But  that  is  a  matter  to  be  told  of  in 
its  proper  place. 

Meanwhile,  nature  went  forward  in  her  resist- 
less course  as  severely  as  ever.  The  days  came 
and  the  nights  fell  —  the  beautiful  nights  with 
their  glittering  millions  of  stars  trooping  westward 
in  orderly  constellations  —  and  the  days  and  nights 
became  weeks,  and  the  weeks  became  months,  and 
the  months  brought  the  seasons  and  the  seasons 
the  years*  I  could  but  compare  the  feeble  and 
fluttering  troubles  of  humanity,  its  spites  and  dis- 
putes, its  wild  struggles,  its  deepest  griefs  and  its 
most  woeful  miseries,  with  the  solemn  majesty  of 
nature.  I  could  but  feel  that  the  solitude  of  the 
great  woods  and  the  infinite  spaces  of  the  sky, 
though  dumb,  were  charged  with  the  power  and 
presence  of  the  Ever-Living  One.  So  that  when 
reflection  sat  with  me  at  odd  times,  I  was  seized 
with  the  deepest  pity  for  all  the  human  atoms 
(myself  among  the  rest)  that  were  surging  and 
struggling,  grabbing  and  grasping,  and  jostling 
against  one  another,  less  orderly  and  purposeful 
than  the  procession  of  tiny  black  ants  that  was 
marching  day  and  night  from  the  garden  to  sister 
Jane's  cupboard. 

Of  all  that  I  knew  there  was  but  one  that  seemed 
to  employ  life  and  the  days  thereof  in  a  way  that 
might  be  acceptable  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  and 


JINCY  IN  THE  NEW  GROUND.  215 


that  one  was  Mary  Bullard.  Yet  she  made  no 
pretensions  to  piety  ;  she  simply  went  about  among 
those  who  were  poor  and  unhappy  on  missions  of 
charity  and  benevolence,  comforting  those  who 
were  under  the  ban  of  public  opinion,  and  carry- 
ing succor  to  the  shabby  homes  of  the  poverty- 
stricken,  always  helping  them  without  asking  why 
they  failed  to  help  themselves,  and  carrying  with 
her  everywhere  the  blessings  of  all  she  met. 

She  had  a  great  admirer  in  Jincy  Meadows,  who 
met  her  once  when  he  came  to  see  Mandy  Satterlee. 
I  introduced  him  to  Mary  simply  to  enjoy  his  em- 
barrassment, but,  to  my  surprise,  he  betrayed  no 
shyness  whatever.  His  self-consciousness,  which 
was  sometimes  almost  painfully  apparent,  disap- 
peared entirely,  and  he  conversed  with  an  ease  and 
fluency  quite  remarkable.  Mary  was  very  much 
amused  at  his  drolleries  and  drew  him  out  in  the 
deftest  way,  taking  pains  to  put  him  at  his  ease. 

When  she  went  away,  Jincy  watched  her  moving 
through  the  garden  and  then  turned  to  me. 

"  Shacks,  squire  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  if  I  had  n't 
'a'  taken  a  good  look  at  Miss  Mary  I 'd  'a'  never 
believed  that  the  world  held  the  like  of  her  —  now 
that 's  honest !  " 

"  How  is  that,  Jincy  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  '11  tell  you,  squire  —  if  Miss  Mary 'd  go  out  in 
the  woods  and  sorter  git  use  to  things  out  there, 
she 'd  soon  have  the  birds  a-flyin'  after  her,  and  all 
the  wiP  creeturs  a-follerin'  her.  She's  got  the 
ways,  and  she 'd  soon  git  the  knack." 


216 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


"1  noticed.  Jincy.  that  you  didn't  blush  and 
stammer  as  I  've  seen  you  do,"  I  remarked. 

•'I  didn't  have  time,  squire  —  that's  a  fact. 
I  looked  in  her  eyes,  and  I  know'd  right  then  and 
there  that  she  was  somebody  that  would  n't  make 
fun  of  me,  and  go  off  thinkin'  I  'in  a  bigger  fool  'n 
I  reely  am.  So  I  jest  braced  up  and  felt  at  home. 
Squire,  did  you  hear  her  laugh  —  once  in  particu- 
lar when  I  told  her  about  the  crooked  tree  ?  It 
sounded  je^t  like  a  soft  note  on  a  fiddle.*' 

Did  I  remember  it  ?  Aye,  and  a  hundred  little 
graces  that  escaped  Jincy's  eyes.  Yet  I  was 
struck,  as  well  as  gratified,  by  the  fact  that  Jincy 
had  heard  and  noticed  the  rippling  music  of  her 
laughter.  In  the  midst  of  his  drolleries,  he  was 
telling  of  an  experience  he  had  in  clearing  up  a 
new  ground,  and  why  he  never  intended  to  engage 
in  that  kind  of  work  again. 

'•I  hope  you'll  believe  me,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
k-  when  I  say  that  I  went  at  this  cle'rin'  of  the  new 
gronn"  with  as  good  a  heart  and  disposition  to  take 
hold  of  it  and  git  it  out  of  the  way  as  anybody 
could.  I  taken  my  axe  and  went  into  the  timber, 
and  started  to  begin  on  a  saplin".  But  I  looked 
at  the  axe  and  then  I  looked  at  the  saplin',  and  I 
says  to  myse'f.  says  I.  *  Jiney.  what  in  the  world  is 
the  use  of  tryin'  your  hand  on  a  baby  tree  ?  If 
you  want  to  begin  right,  why  n't  you  pick  out  a 
tree  that  *s  got  age  and  size  on  its  side ':  ' 

"  So  I  swung  the  axe  over  my  shoulder  and  went 
through  the  timber  till  I  found  a  big  fine  tree.  I 


JINCY  IN  THE  NEW  GROUND.  217 


tell  you  what,  she  was  a  whopper.  It  looked  like 
a  squirrel  would  have  to  take  a  runnin'  start  and 
climb  a  quarter  of  a  mile  before  he  got  to  the  top, 
because  there  wa'n't  narry  a  limb  half  way  where 
he  could  rest.  'T  was  all  body  from  root  to  branch, 
and  no  branch  till  you  got  to  the  top. 

"  I  went  up  and  laid  my  hand  on  it,  and  then  I 
stepped  back  and  raised  the  axe,  but  before  I  let 
the  lick  fall,  a  thought  struck  me.  I  lowered  the 
axe  and  walked  round  the  pine.  Says  I  to  myse'f, 
says  I,  '  Jincy,  here 's  a  tree  what  is  a  tree.  May- 
be it 's  upwards  of  a  thousand  years  old,  and  ain't 
grown  yit ;  and  if  't  ain't,  what  a  pity  to  cut  it 
down  in  the  bloom  of  youth,'  says  I.  So  I  walked 
around  the  pine  ag'in  —  it  was  a  whopper,  ma'am — 
and  I  says,  says  I,  6  Jincy,  here 's  a  pine  and  a  big 
one.  It  wouldn't  make  enough  lumber  to  build  a 
court-house,  nor  enough  timber  to  build  a  bridge,' 
says  I,  4  and  yit,  if  all  the  people  of  all  the  United 
States  was  to  meet  in  one  big  convention  and  pass 
resolutions,  and  throw  in  more  money  than  seve'm 
hunder'd  steers  could  pull,  they  could  n't  have  this 
pine  put  back  after  it 's  cut  down.  The  harrycanes 
ain't  hurt  it  and  the  thunder  ain't  teched  it,  and 
now  here  's  poor  little  Jincy  Meadows,  more  'n  half 
a  fool,  and  yit  not  half  a  man,  a-standing  round 
and  nourishing  his  axe  and  gittin'  ready  to  cut  it 
down,'  says  I. 

"  I  drapped  my  axe  and  shuck  my  head,  ma'am, 
and  went  on  through  the  timber  s'arching  for  an- 
other place  to  begin  cleanin'  up  the  new  groun'. 


218 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


I  had  n't  gone  so  mighty  fur  when  I  come  to  a 
clean  lookin"  hickory ;  so  I  ups  and  I  says,  6  Jincy, 
here 's  your  chance.  If  you  eyer  speck  to  make 
any  big  name  for  cleanin'  up  new  grounds,  you 've 
got  to  make  a  beginnin"  soine'rs,  and  right  now 's 
the  time,  and  this  here 's  the  place.  This  hickory 
is  tough,  and  by  the  time  you  git  it  down  you  '11  be 
warm  enough  for  to  go  rio-ht  ahead  and  cut  "em 
down  as  you  come  to  'em.'  I  swung  my  axe 
aroun*  my  head  a  time  or  two  to  feel  of  the  heft, 
and  I  was  jest  about  to  make  a  start,  when  I  heard 
a  fuss  up  in  the  tree,  and  here  come  a  little  gray 
squirrel  with  a  hickory  nut  in  his  mouth.  He  was 
coinin'  right  down  the  body  of  the  tree,  but  when 
he  seen  me  he  stopped  and  give  his  bushy  tail  a 
flirt  or  two  as  much  as  to  say,  -Hello,  Jincy! 
what 's  up  now  ? '  Then  he  got  on  a  limb  and  sot 
up  and  looked  at  me  as  cunnin'  as  you  please.  I 
taken  my  hat  off  to  Little  Gray,  and  says,  says  I, 
1  Excuse  me.  mister,  if  you  please !  I  was  jest 
about  to  up  and  knock  down  your  hickory  nut 
orchard,  and  I  'ni  mighty  glad  you  spoke  when  you 
did.  I  would  n't  trespass  on  your  premises,  not 
for  the  world !  '  says  L 

44  So  I  ups  and  shoidders  my  axe  and  goes  on 
through  the  timber  a-himtin'  for  a  place  where  I 
could  begin  the  job  of  cleanin'  up  the  new  groun', 
for  it  jest  had  to  be  cleaned  up.  I  come  to  a  big- 
poplar,  and  when  I  tapped  it  with  the  eye  of  the 
axe.  I  found  it  was  holler.  So  I  says,  says  I, 
4  Jincy,  here 's  a  big  tree  that  *s  outlived  its  in- 


JIXCY  IX  THE  NEW  GROUND. 


219 


nerds  and 't  ain't  no  manner  account.  I  '11  jest  up 
an'  take  it  down,'  says  I.  But,  bless  gracious, 
when  I  tapped  on  the  poplar  't  was  the  same  as 
knockin'  at  a  door.  I  heard  a  scratchin'  and  a 
clawin'  fuss,  and  then  I  seen  the  lady  of  the  house 
stick  her  head  out  of  the  window.  'T  wa'n't  no- 
body in  the  world  but  old  Miss  Coon,  and  I  know 'd 
by  the  way  she  looked  that  she  had  a  whole  passel 
of  children  in  there.  So  I  bowed  politely,  and 
says,  says  I,  '  I  ast  your  pardon,  ma'am.  I  thought 
you  lived  furder  up  the  creek.  I  hope  your  fam- 
ily 's  well,'  says  I.  Old  Miss  Coon  shuck  her  head 
like  she  did  n't  half  believe  me,  or  it  might  'a'  been 
a  blue-bottle  fly  a-buzzin'  too  close  to  her  ears. 

"  But  I  let  her  house  alone,  and  went  along: 
through  the  timber,  a-huntin'  for  a  place  where  I 
might  begin  for  to  clean  up  the  new  groun',  be- 
cause it  jest  had  to  be  cleaned  up.  I  went  along 
till  I  come  to  a  young  pine,  an'  I  says,  says  I, 
'  Jiucy,  here 's  the  very  identical  place  I  Ve  been 
lookin'  for  and  this  here 's  the  tree.  It  ain't  too 
big,  it  ain't  too  tall,  it  ain't  too  young,  and  it  ain't 
too  old,'  says  I.  But  before  I  could  make  my  ar- 
rangements for  to  cut  it  down,  I  heard  a  squallin' 
in  the  top,  and  I  looked  up  and  seen  a  jay-bird's 
nest.  The  old  jay  got  on  a  limb  right  at  me,  his 
topnot  a  bristlin',  and  he  give  me  the  worst  cussin' 
out  I 've  had  since  my  hoss  run  away  and  broke 
old  Jonce  Ashfield's  jug  of  liquor.  Says  I,  '  Hey, 
hey,  Mr.  Jay !  Is  this  where  you  stay  ?  Then 
I '11  go  'way.'  " 


220 


SISTEE  JANE. 


In  repeating  these  rhymes,  Jincy  fitted  his  voice 
to  the  notes  of  the  jay  with  remarkable  effect. 
Mary  laughed  at  this,  but  she  took  his  story  as 
seriously  as  he  did,  and  saw  deeper  into  it,  perhaps, 
than  he  suspected  or  intended. 

"  I  picked  up  my  axe,"  he  continued,  "  and  went 
through  the  timber  a-huntin'  for  a  place  where  I 
could  begin  to  clean  up  the  new  groun',  for  it  jest 
had  to  be  cleaned  up.  After  a  while  I  come  to  a 
tree  that  was  dead  from  top  to  bottom.  It  was  so 
dead  that  there  wa'n't  a  limb  on  it,  and  all  the 
bark  had  drapped  off.  So  I  says  to  myself,  says 
I,  '  Now,  Jincy,  here  you  are  !  Now  's  your  time  ! 
You  can't  do  no  damage  here.  The  new  groun'  's 
got  to  be  cleaned  up,  and  here 's  the  place  to  be- 
gin,' says  I.  I  shucked  my  coat,  for  the  walkin' 
had  sorter  warmed  me  up,  and  grabbed  my  axe, 
but  before  I  hit  the  lick,  I  thought  maybe  I 'd  save 
elbow  grease  and  jest  push  the  old  tree  down.  I 
give  it  a  right  smart  shake  and  it  sorter  swayed 
and  tottered,  but  jest  about  that  time,  I  heard  a 
big  flutteration  at  the  top,  and  out  come  a  pair  of 
wood -peckers.  I  drapped  my  axe  and  bowed. 
4  You  must  reely  excuse  me,  Mister  Flicker,'  says 
I,  'because  I  thought  you'd  have  a  better  house 
than  this  at  your  time  of  life,'  says  I. 

"  I  picked  up  my  coat  and  my  axe  and  went 
a-huntin'  through  the  timber  for  a  place  where  I 
could  start  to  cleanin'  up  the  new  groun',  because 
it  had  to  be  cleaned  up  —  there  wa'n't  no  two  ways 
about  that.    I  went  along,  keepin'  a  sharp  eye  out, 


JINCY  IN  THE  NEW  GROUND. 


221 


and  after  a  while  I  come  across  the  identical  tree 
I  had  been  a-lookin'  for.  It  was  a  stunted  black- 
jack. It  had  started  to  grow  up,  and  then  it  had 
started  down  ag'in.  Then  it  went  back  and  grow'd 
out  to'rds  the  east,  and  then  it  grow'd  back  to'ards 
the  west  —  this-away,  t hat-away  and  ever'  which- 
away.  It  had  as  many  elbows  as  the  Baptizin' 
creek,  and  as  many  twists  as  a  gin  screw.  So  I 
says,  says  I,  4  Howdy,  black-jack !  I  '11  jest  start 
with  you.'  And  I  did.  I  drapped  my  coat  on  the 
groun',  and  had  n't  hit  a  dozen  licks  with  the  axe 
before  down  came  the  black-jack.  And  no  sooner 
had  I  saw  what  I  done  than  I  was  sorry." 

"  Sorry  !  "  exclaimed  sister  Jane.  "  What  for, 
Jincy  ?  " 

"  Well 'm,"  replied  Jincy,  with  just  the  faintest 
shadow  of  a  smile  showing  in  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  "  that  black-jack  was  so  crooked  that  it 
could  n't  lay  still.  By  the  time  it  got  fairly  settled 
one  wa)^,  it 'd  wobble  and  turn  over.  It  wobbled 
sideways  an  roun'  and  roun' ;  it  wobbled  a  piece 
of  the  way  up  hill,  and  then  turned  and  wobbled 
down.  It  got  a  kind  of  a  runnin'  start  when  it 
headed  down  hill,  and  could  n't  stop  itself.  Old 
Molly  Cotton-Tail  was  a-settin'  under  a  bush  nigh 
the  edge  of  the  thicket,  jest  as  comfortable  as  you 
please.  She  heard  the  black-jack  a-coming  in  the 
nick  of  time,  and  if  she  had  n't  made  a  break  when 
she  did,  she 'd  'a'  been  run  over  and  crippled.  She 
was  a  skeered  rabbit,  certain  and  shore  —  and  the 
worst  of  it  is,  she  got  the  idee  that  Jincy  was  after 


222 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


her,  and  'twas  the  longest  after  that  before  she 'd 
set  still  and  le'  me  scratch  her  behind  her  ears. 

"  The  black-jack  tried  to  wobble  back  where  it 
lived,  but  the  slope  was  too  steep,  and  it  went  on 
wobbling  down  the  branch.  A  passel  of  hogs 
feedin'  down  there  seen  it  a-comin'  and  went 
through  the  woods  a-huuipin'  and  a-snortin.'  The 
hogs  skeer'd  a  drove  of  cattle,  and  the  cattle  broke 
and  run  down  a  lane,  and  skeer'd  old  Miss  Favers's 
yoke  of  steers,  and  the  steers  skeer'd  a  plough 
mule,  and  the  plough  mule  broke  loose  and  run 
home  and  skeer'd  the  old  speckled  hen  off  her  nest." 

"  What  became  of  the  black-jack?  "  I  inquired. 

"  You  are  too  much  for  me,  squire,"  replied 
Jincy.  "  I  reckon  it 's  a  wobbling  yit  if 't  ain't 
got  caught  in  a  crack  of  the  fence.  I  left  them 
diggin's.  I  says  to  myself,  sa}^s  I,  4  Jincy,  you  ain't 
got  much  sense,  but  you  've  got  sense  enough  to 
know  that  you  ain't  much  of  a  hand  to  clean  up 
new  groun','  says  I ;  and  then  I  lit  out  and  went 
home." 

"  That 's  Jincy  all  over,"  remarked  Mandy  smil- 
ing. 

I  could  see  that  Mary  enjoyed  Jincy's  narrative 
of  his  adventures  very  much,  and  that  she  appre- 
ciated the  humane  motive  that  ran  through  it  like 
a  thread  of  gold.  Jincy  saw  it,  too,  and  that  is  why 
he  made  the  remark  that  has  been  quoted  already : 

"  Shucks,  squire  !  if  I  had  n't  'a'  taken  a  good 
look  at  Miss  Mary,  I 'd  'a'  never  believed  that  the 
world  held  the  like  of  her —  now  that 's  honest." 


XVI. 


A  PERIOD  OF  CALM. 

There  are  periods  of  quiet  that  are  difficult  to 
describe,  especially  in  a  simple  chronicle  that 
makes  no  claim  to  go  beyond  the  surface  of  events. 
For  three,  four,  —  yes,  five  —  years  the  village, 
the  people,  and  especially  our  little  household  saw 
few  changes  worth  noting.  So  far  as  events  are 
concerned  we  were  becalmed.  It  would  be  an 
easy  matter,  if  what  is  here  written  were  a  mere 
piece  of  fiction,  to  invent  a  succession  of  episodes 
to  add  interest  to  the  narrative.  I  have  in  my 
mind  now  a  half  dozen  scenes  that  are  admirably 
fitted  to  do  duty  here.  Or  I  might  employ  some 
such  formula  as  I  have  met  with  in  the  lighter 
books  — "  Several  years  have  now  elapsed." 
Nevertheless,  I  know  that  during  this  period  of 
calm  the  strangest  events  were  slowly  taking  shape 
and  growing  gradually  toward  culmination.  The 
years  of  quiet  that  are  so  flippantly  disposed  of  in 
light  pieces  of  fiction  are  frequently  the  most  im- 
portant of  all  in  real  life.  Out  of  such  periods 
Fortune  comes  with  its  favors,  or  Fate  (as  some 
say)  with  its  sword. 

It  was  so  now.    Colonel  Bullard  grew  visibly 


224 


SISTER  JANE. 


older,  Mary  more  beautiful,  and  the  Colonel's  wife 
more  restless,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  whisking  through 
the  dark  garden  between  sunset  and  dark  like  a 
pink  and  white  moth.  Mrs.  Beshears  remained 
vigorous  enough  to  continue  her  visits,  and  her 
two  sisters  Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky  seemed  to 
be  no  feebler  in  mind  and  body  than  they  had  been 
in  some  years.  Sister  Jane  appeared  as  young  as 
ever  to  my  eyes,  but  my  mirror  told  me  that  a  man 
is  not  as  young  at  forty-odd  as  he  is  at  thirty-five. 
Mandy  Satterlee  was  cheerful,  but  not  gay  —  and 
I  often  thought  that  her  cheerfulness  sprang  from 
her  mother-love  for  her  boy,  who  had  grown  to  be 
a  fat  and  saucy  rascal  of  nearly  six  years.  Jincy 
Meadows  came  to  see  Mandy  regularly  every 
Saturday,  and  it  was  plain  to  all  eyes,  except 
Mandy 's,  that  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  her. 
As  for  Mandy,  she  said  over  and  often  that  love 
was  not  for  such  as  she,  and  though  she  laughed 
when  she  said  it,  her  voice  was  charged  with  mel- 
ancholy. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mrs.  Beshears  remained 
vigorous.  Yet  she  was  growing  older  and  she  felt 
it  and  knew  it,  for  one  day  she  came  into  the 
village  and  asked  me  to  write  her  will.  Its  terms 
were  in  keeping  with  her  peculiarities.  First  and 
foremost,  her  share  of  the  property,  land  and 
negroes,  was  to  go  to  her  two  sisters  to  be  held 
for  their  use  and  benefit,  should  she  die  first  — 
with  this  exception,  that  the  home  place,  which  was 
hers,  was  to  go  to  Mandy  Satterlee,  her  heirs  and 


A  PERIOD  OF  CALM. 


225 


assigns,  provided  Mandy  would  agree  to  take 
charge  of  the  two  sisters  and  administer  faithfully 
to  their  wants.  At  the  death  of  the  two  sisters, 
the  home  place  and  one  hundred  acres  of  land  were 
to  be  Mandy  Satterlee's  portion.  In  the  course  of 
the  will  Mrs.  Beshears  expressed  a  desire  that,  at 
the  death  of  her  two  sisters,  the  negroes  should  be 
given  their  freedom,  and  that  the  portion  of  real 
estate  not  otherwise  devised  should  be  sold  for  the 
purpose  of  transporting  them  to  a  free  state.  I 
saw  a  great  many  complications  in  this,  should  any 
claimants  to  the  estate  turn  up,  and  so  advised 
Mrs.  Beshears ;  but  her  blunt  reply  was  that  if  I 
was  n't  lawyer  enough  to  draw  her  own  will  the 
way  she  wanted  it,  she 'd  "go  to  somebody  else 
and  maybe  have  the  job  done  better."  So  I  drew 
the  will  the  best  I  could,  and  had  it  witnessed  by 
men  of  property  and  standing.  Mrs.  Beshears 
was  as  impatient  of  these  formalities  as  she  was  of 
the  legal  terms,  technicalities,  and  circumlocutions, 
which  indeed  are  whimsical  enough  even  to  those 
who  employ  them.  But  she  was  satisfied  when  the 
matter  had  been  concluded,  and  seemed  to  feel 
better. 

I  was  surprised  that  she  should  leave  so  substan- 
tial an  evidence  of  her  regard  for  Mandy  Satter- 
lee,  having  never  made  any  special  manifestation 
of  it  so  far  as  her  actions  were  concerned  ;  and  I 
took  occasion  to  make  a  remark  to  that  effect. 

"  Well,  you  know,  William,  folks  is  selfish  to  the 
last.    If  I  could  take  wi'  me  when  I  die  what  little 


226 


SISTER  JANE. 


I 've  got,  I  reckon  I 'd  hold  onto  it,  though  the 
Lord  knows  it 's  been  enough  trouble  to  me  in  this 
world,  —  let  'lone  the  next.  But  I  can't  take  it 
wi'  me,  an'  so  I  jest  give  it  to  Mandy  Satterlee 
to  git  her  to  take  keer  of  them  two  ol'  babies  of 
mine.  Somebody's  got  to  do  it,  an'  I  reckon 
Mandy  '11  treat  'em  jest  as  good  as  anybody  else, 
maybe  better,  specially  when  she 's  paid  well  to 
do  it." 

"  But  suppose  they  die  first  ? "  I  suggested. 
"It  is  to  be  expected.  In  the  course  of  nature 
you  ought  to  outlive  Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky 
many  years." 

"  It 's  all  guess-work,  William.  Katur'  has  its 
course  as  you  say ;  but  I 've  know'd  it  to  take 
short-cuts,  an'  maybe  that 's  the  way  it  '11  do  now. 
Anyhow,  I 've  made  up  my  mind  to  pick  up  an' 
go  to  church  next  Sunday.  I  hope  I  won't 
skeer  the  natives." 

Mrs.  Beshears  was  not  in  the  habit  of  going  to 
church,  and  her  statement  caused  me  to  open  my 
eyes  a  little  wider.  She  must  have  seen  this,  for 
she  laughed  and  said  :  — 

"  Don't  git  skeer 'd,  "William.  If  I  go  I  '11  try 
to  behave  myself,  an'  you  nee'  n't  cut  your  eye  at 
me  if  you  see  me  there.  Jimmy  Dannielly 's  goin' 
to  preach,  they  say,  an'  I  want  to  hear  him.  I  use 
to  know  Jimmy  when  he  was  a  rip-roarin'  sinner. 
Why,  he  use  to  go  'roun'  the  country  a-cussin'  like 
a  sailor,  an'  a-bellerin'  like  a  brindle  bull  ;  but 
now  they  tell  me  that  he  preaches  jest  as  hard  as 


A  PERIOD  OF  CALM. 


227 


he  use  to  cuss,  an'  if  that 's  so,  I  want  to  hear  him. 
So  when  you  hear  me  a-thumpin'  up  the  aisle, 
don't  turn  'roun',  bekaze  I  won't  be  much  to  look 
at.  If  Jimmy 's  in  the  pulpit  when  I  go  in,  I 
hope  he  won't  think  I 'm  mockin'  him,  because  my 
stick  makes  as  much  fuss  as  his  wooden  leg." 

Uncle  Jimmy  Dannielly  was  the  most  noted 
preacher  we  had  in  middle  Georgia.  He  was  a 
revivalist,  and  although  he  was  a  Methodist,  his 
preaching  was  acceptable  to  the  members  of  all 
denominations  —  the  Baptists  and  Presbyterians 
—  that  had  found  a  foothold  among  the  people. 
The  reason  of  this  was  that  Uncle  Jimmy  was 
never  known  to  preach  what  is  called  a  doctrinal 
sermon.  He  did  not  concern  himself  with  creeds, 
but  preached  the  religion  that  he  found  in  the 
New  Testament.  He  was  a  very  earnest  man,  and 
his  fervor  gave  rise  to  a  great  many  eccentricities. 
Sprung  from  the  common  people,  he  used  the  lan- 
guage of  the  common  people,  and  I  never  knew 
how  fluent,  flexible,  and  picturesque  every-day 
English  was  until  I  heard  Uncle  Jimmy  preach. 
Perhaps  his  manner  —  his  earnestness  —  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it ;  but  there  was  more  in  the 
matter,  for  a  mere  attitude  of  the  mind  cannot 
give  potency  to  language,  nor  can  fervor,  nor  ex- 
altation, nor  even  a  great  thought,  always  sum- 
mon the  apt  and  illuminating  word,  as  I  have  long 
ago  found  out  to  my  sorrow. 

It  was  said  that,  on  one  occasion,  when  Uncle 
Jimmy  Dannielly  was  preaching  in  a  neighboring 


228 


SIS  TEE  JANE. 


town,  a  dandified  young  fellow  rose  in  the  midst 
of  the  sermon  and  went  down  the  aisle  toward  the 
door,  twirling  a  light  cane  in  his  hand.  The 
preacher  paused  in  his  sermon  and  cried  out, 
"  Stop,  young  man !  Stop  where  3*011  are  and 
think  !  There  are  no  dandies  in  heaven  with  rat- 
tan canes  and  broadcloth  breeches."  The  story 
goes  that  the  young  man  waved  his  hand  lightly 
and  replied  that  there  wTere  as  many  dandies  with 
canes  in  heaven  as  there  were  wooden-legged  preach- 
ers. The  truth  of  this  last  I  doubted.  Such  a  re- 
mark as  that  credited  to  the  young  man  would  have 
outraged  public  opinion,  and  no  young  man  can 
afford  to  do  that.  The  whole  story  is  doubtless  an 
invention,  but  the  words  attributed  to  Uncle  Jimmy 
Dannielly  were  characteristic  of  his  bluntness. 
Though  in  all  probabilit}r  he  did  not  utter  them, 
they  nevertheless  had  the  flavor  of  his  style  and 
his  uncompromising  methods. 

Large  crowds  always  went  to  hear  Uncle  Jimmy 
preach,  some  to  renew  their  religious  faith  and 
fervor,  some  to  discover  the  source  of  his  reputa- 
tion, and  some  (the  great  majority,  it  is  to  be 
feared)  to  be  amused  at  his  eccentricities.  As  it 
was  in  other  communities,  so  it  was  in  ours.  On 
the  Sunday  morning  when  Uncle  Jimmy  was  to 
preach  in  the  old  Union  church,  Sister  Jane  and 
myself  found  a  large  crowd  present,  though  we  had 
come  early.  Usually  the  men  sat  on  one  side  and 
the  women  on  the  other,  but  on  this  particular  oc- 
casion the  custom  vanished  before  the  anxiety  of 


A  PERIOD  OF  CALM. 


229 


the  people  to  see  and  hear  the  preacher.  I  found 
myself,  therefore,  with  a  good  many  other  men,  sit- 
ting in  the  pews  usually  reserved  for  the  women. 
I  was  one  pew  behind  that  in  which  sister  Jane 
sat  —  on  the  very  seat,  as  I  suddenly  discovered, 
that  I  had  sometimes  occupied  when  a  boy,  not 
willingly,  but  in  deference  to  the  commands  of  »sis- 
ter  Jane,  who,  in  those  days  long  gone,  made  it  a 
part  of  her  duty  to  take  me  prisoner  every  Sunday 
morning  and  carry  me  to  church  whether  or  no. 

There,  on  the  side  of  the  pew,  were  the  letters 
W.  W.,  which  many  years  ago  I  had  carved  with 
my  barlow  knife.  They  were  as  distinct  as  if  they 
had  been  made  but  yesterdaj^,  and  I  passed  my 
fingers  over  them  as  one  might  do  in  a  dream.  It 
all  came  back  to  me  —  the  beautiful  singing,  the 
droning  prayer,  the  long  sermon,  the  doxology,  the 
solemn  benediction.  I  was  too  tall  now  to  lean 
my  head  against  the  back  of  the  pew,  and  gradu- 
ally become  oblivious  to  all  sights  and  sounds ;  but 
in  the  old  days,  keenly  alive  to  my  imprisonment, 
I  used  to  sit  and  wish  for  the  end  until  the  obliv- 
ion of  sleep  lifted  me  beyond  the  four  walls  and 
out  into  the  freedom  of  the  woods  and  fields. 
Sometimes  the  preacher,  anxious  to  impress  some 
argument  upon  the  minds  of  his  hearers,  would 
bring  his  fist  down  on  the  closed  Bible  with  a  bang 
that  startled  me  out  of  dreamland.  I  remembered 
how  I  used  to  sit  and  watch  the  beautiful  rays  of 
sunshine  streaming  through  the  half-closed  blinds 
of  the  high  windows,  and  how  I  used  to  envy  the 


230 


SISTER  JANE. 


birds  that  sang  r.ncl  chirped  in  the  shrubbery  of 
the  old  graveyard  hard  by.  At  such  times  a  sense 
of  loneliness  crept  over  me,  especially  if  I  could 
hear  the  voices  of  children  at  play  in  the  pleasant 
sunshine  ;  and  I  smiled  to  remember  what  a  sense 
of  isolation  it  gave  me  if  a  cow  lowed  in  the  green 
pastures  behind  the  church. 

Over  my  head  now  was  the  same  high  ceiling 
that  had  attracted  my  attention,  if  not  my  admi- 
ration, in  the  days  of  my  childhood.  It  had  been 
painted  to  represent  the  sky,  but  the  hand  that 
held  the  brush  was  not  the  hand  of  an  artist.  Yet 
it  was  no  doubt  an  ambitious  piece  of  work.  Long 
waving  blurs  of  white  represented  the  rims  of  the 
clouds,  and  in  the  blue  spaces  a  few  white  splotches 
stood  for  the  stars.  The  ceiling  was  lifted  high 
above  the  tall  pulpit  and  above  the  gallery,  which 
ran  around  the  church  on  the  sides  and  on  the 
end  opposite  the  pulpit,  and  was  supported  by 
a  row  of  tall  and  stately  white  pillars  that  lent  a 
solemn  dignity  to  the  interior  perspective,  no  mat- 
ter in  what  part  of  the  building  the  observer  sat. 
The  height  of  the  ceiling  was  effective  in  another 
way.  However  bright  the  sun  might  shine  out- 
side, there  was  always  a  mysterious  twilight  haze 
overhead  —  not  dark,  nor  even  dusky,  but  dim. 
~No  matter  how  bright  a  light  poured  into  the 
church  from  the  windows  beneath  the  gallery,  it 
was  mellowed  and  subdued  ere  it  reached  the  ceil- 
ing. 

Looking  up  now  I  could  see  a  bat  circling  over- 


A  PERIOD  OF  CALM. 


231 


head,  and,  as  I  watched,  it  was  joined  by  another. 
I  remembered  that  in  the  days  of  my  youth  I  used 
to  sit  on  the  hard  and  uncomfortable  seat  and  watch 
the  bats  whirling  in  giddy  circles,  sometimes  close 
to  the  ceiling,  and  sometimes  darting  as  low  as  the 
gallery.  I  used  to  wonder  where  they  went  when 
the  church  was  closed  and  the  windows  shut.  Some- 
times they  would  disappear  for  a  moment  in  the 
dark  space  that  hung  grim  and  awful  (as  my  child- 
ish mind  had  pictured  it)  between  the  gallery  and 
the  recess  behind  the  belfry.  Then,  as  if  they  had 
merely  gone  to  carry  a  message,  they  would  reap- 
pear almost  immediately,  and  begin  their  gyra- 
tions anew,  flitting  about  ceaselessly  until  slumber 
closed  my  eyes  to  their  movements,  or  a  sudden 
twitch  or  pinch  from  sister  Jane's  ready  fingers 
caused  me  to  turn  my  head,  but  not  my  mind, 
in  the  direction  of  the  preacher's  voice. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  I  rarely  entered  the  old 
church  that  I  did  not  live  over  again  some  part  of 
my  childish  experience,  and  the  more  so  now,  since 
I  was  confronted  by  the  crooked  and  unsymmetrical 
W.  W.,  that  I  had  managed  to  carve  on  the  back 
of  the  pew  in  spite  of  sister  Jane's  watchful  eye. 

While  these  various  thoughts  and  reminiscences 
were  tumbling  over  one  another  in  my  mind,  the 
people  continued  to  assemble.  I  saw  Mary  Bill- 
iard come  in  the  door,  pause  on  the  threshold,  as 
if  waiting  for  some  one,  and  then  go  down  the  aisle 
with  modest  grace,  followed  by  her  mother.  Then 
came  Colonel  Bullard,  marching  along  with  meas- 


SI  STEP.  J  AXE. 


ured  and  dignified  tread.  Their  pew  was  to  the 
right  of  the  pulpit  and  very  near  it,  so  that  it 
might  be  said  of  the  Colonel,  as  it  was  said  of  an- 
other, that  he  had  placed  himself  under  the  drip- 
pings of  the  sanctuary. 

From  my  place  I  could  just  see  the  top  of  the 
preacher's  head  as  he  sat  behind  the  pulpit  desk, 
eno-ao-ed  either  in  reading  the  Bible  or  in  silent 
prayer.  He  was  evidently  waiting  for  all  the  con- 
o-resration  to  gather,  so  that  there  would  be  no  noise 
or  disturbance  after  services  began.  My  eyes 
moved  over  the  congregation,  and  finally  rested  on 
sister  Jane,  who  sat  bolt  upright  in  her  seat. 
There  was  an  air  of  grim  defiance  about  the  set  of 
her  bonnet.  One  arm  rested  on  the  end  of  the 
pew,  and  I  noticed  that  her  turkey-tail  fan,  which 
she  always  carried  with  her  on  occasions  of  mo- 
ment, was  swinging  in  the  adjoining  pew.  I  could 
see  the  bow  of  the  modest  ribbon  by  which  the  fan 
was  attached  to  her  wrist.  I  observed,  too.  that 
in  this  pew  sat  a  little  boy  apparently  eight  or  ten 
years  of  age.  He  sat  very  still,  but  I  noticed  that 
there  was  a  look  of  interest  and  expectation  in  his 
eyes  as  he  turned  his  head  from  side  to  side.  His 
face  was  brown  with  the  sun.  but  was  not  the  less 
attractive  for  that.  I  tried  to  remember  if  I  had 
ever  seen  him  before,  having  no  other  matter  to 
interest  me.  Failing  in  this,  I  tried  to  place  him 
by  tracing  his  family  resemblance  in  his  features. 
I  failed  here  also. 

AVhile  I  was  idly  studying  the  lad's  face,  his 


A  PERIOD  OF  CALM. 


233 


eye  fell  on  sister  Jane's  turkey-tail  fan.  With  a 
quick  glance  he  looked  from  the  fan  to  its  owner. 
What  he  saw  there  must  have  satisfied  him,  for  he 
reached  forth  his  hand  and  began  to  examine  the 
morocco  shield  which  held  the  ends  of  the  feathers 
together.  Sister  Jane  felt  the  movements  of  the 
fan,  saw  that  the  boy  was  touching  it,  and  drew  it 
away  with  an  impatient  gesture.  I  regretted  it  in 
a  moment,  for  the  lad  regarded  her  with  some 
amazement,  and  then  slowly  moved  as  far  away 
from  her  as  he  could  get,  and  leaned  against  the 
back  of  the  pew.  Instantly  a  hand  was  laid  ten- 
derly on  the  lad's  shoulder,  and  he  rested  his  cheek 
against  it,  appearing  to  take  great  comfort  from  its 
support.  One  of  the  huge  pillars  intervened  be- 
tween the  owner  of  the  hand  and  my  eyes.  I  could 
not  see  him  no  matter  how  I  shifted  my  position  or 
craned  my  neck. 

But  the  hand  was  strong  and  firm,  and  browner 
by  far  than  the  boy's  face.  On  the  third  finger 
was  a  ring  that  I  judged  by  its  color  and  lack  of 
finish  to  be  of  virgin  gold.  Sister  Jane  noticed 
the  surprised  expression  in  the  lad's  face  and  saw 
his  movement  away  from  her  neighborhood.  There 
was  nothing  petulant  in  the  movement,  nor  any  ex- 
pression of  sullenness  in  the  child's  countenance. 
He  seemed  to  be  grieved  as  well  as  surprised,  that 
he  had  been  repulsed.  Perceiving  all  this,  sis- 
ter Jane  relented,  as  I  knew  she  would.  Her  at- 
titude became  less  rigidly  uncompromising.  She 
leaned  against  the  end  of  her  pew  and  allowed  her 


234 


SISTER  JANE. 


turkey-tail  fan  to  fall  into  the  position  from  which 
she  had  drawn  it  when  she  felt  the  touch  of  the 
child's  hand.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  push  the 
fan  a  little  closer  to  the  boy  than  it  had  been  be- 
fore. He  saw  the  movement,  of  course,  but  evi- 
dently did  not  understand  it,  for  he  sat  perfectly 
still,  his  hands  resting  in  his  lap,  and  his  head 
leaning  with  confidence  on  the  firm  brown  hand 
that  lay  gently  on  his  shoulder. 

For  my  part  I  heartily  regretted  the  episode. 
It  was  a  small  thing  after  all,  but  I  knew  it  would 
rankle  in  sister  Jane's  tender  heart  for  many  a  long 
day.  I  have  heard  her  say  time  and  again  that 
but  for  the  small  worries  of  life  a  great  many  peo- 
ple, especially  women,  would  be  happy,  and  I  now 
felt,  with  a  sort  of  pang,  that  she  would  carry  with 
her  the  thought  that  she  had  wounded  the  feelings 
of  this  lad  thoughtlessly  and  unnecessarily.  The 
child  would  forget  it  in  a  jiffy,  —  perhaps  he  had 
already  forgotten  it,  —  but  sister  Jane  would  re- 
member it,  though  she  might  never  refer  to  it. 

But  my  thoughts  were  soon  diverted  from  this 
trifling  episode.  Suddenly,  as  though  moved  by  a 
common  impulse,  the  congregation,  led  by  Colonel 
Bullard,  began  to  sing  the  beautiful  melody  to 
which  some  inspired  hand  has  set  the  poem  begin- 
ning — 

"  How  tedious  and  tasteless  the  hours." 

The  volume  of  the  song  filled  the  church  from 
floor  to  ceiling.  When  it  was  finished,  the  Bap- 
tist minister,  who  sat  in  the  pulpit  with  Uncle 


A  PERIOD  OF  CALM. 


235 


Jimmy  Dannielly,  rose  and  asked  the  people  to 
join  him  in  prayer.  Some  stood  with  bowed  heads, 
others  knelt  on  the  floor,  while  still  others  sat  in 
their  seats  and  leaned  their  heads  on  the  backs  of 
the  pews  in  front  of  them.  When  the  prayer  was 
finished,  the  Methodist  minister,  who  also  sat  in 
the  pulpit,  rose  and  read  a  hymn  and  then  gave  it 
out,  two  lines  at  a  time.  A  silence  that  seemed  to 
be  full  of  expectation  fell  on  the  congregation  when 
the  last  note  of  the  song  had  died  away.  Uncle 
Jimmy  Dannielly  rose  slowly  from  the  cushioned 
seat  behind  the  desk,  stepped  forward  with  a  limp, 
leaned  both  hands  on  the  pulpit,  and  allowed  his 
eyes  to  wander  over  the  assembly. 


XVII. 

THE  PREACHER  AND  THE  SERMON. 

As  he  stood  thus,  the  revivalist  presented  a 
very  striking  figure.  His  long  iron-gray  hair  was 
combed  straight  back  from  a  high  forehead.  His 
eyes,  though  sunken,  were  full  of  fire.  His  face 
was  lean,  but  full  of  strength  ;  the  nose  was  long 
and  slightly  curved  in  the  middle ;  the  mouth  was 
large  and  the  lips  thin,  but  not  too  thin  to  shut  out 
generosity  ;  and  the  chin  was  massive.  His  dress 
was  of  the  plainest.  His  coat  of  linsey-woolsey 
was  even  shabby.  His  waistcoat  was  cotton  stuff 
dyed  with  copperas.  His  shirt,  though  white,  was 
of  homespun ;  the  collar  was  wide  and  loose ;  and 
there  was  no  sign  of  stock  or  neckerchief.  When 
he  began  to  speak,  his  voice  was  not  lifted  above  a 
conversational  tone,  but  it  penetrated  to  every 
nook  and  corner  of  the  church  and  reached  every 
ear  in  the  congregation. 

"  When  I  last  stood  in  this  pulpit,"  he  said, 
"  Brother  Collingsworth  sat  in  that  seat  there." 
He  pointed  a  long  finger  toward  one  of  the  front 
pews.  "  Right  behind  him  was  the  most  beautiful 
young  woman  these  old  eyes  ever  looked  on."  The 
congregation  knew  that  he  was  referring  to  Eliza- 


THE  TREACHER  AND  THE  SERMON.  231 

beth  Allen,  who  had  been  dead  half  a  dozen  years. 
"Over  there"  —  pointing  to  the  right  —  "  was  a 
man  in  the  prime  of  life.  Over  there  "  —  pointing 
to  the  left  —  "  was  a  woman  who  was  blessed  with 
the  loveliest  fruits  of  motherhood.  In  the  back 
of  the  church,  against  the  wall,  I  saw  a  young  man 
who  had  just  reached  the  year  of  his  majorhYv.  I 
saw  all  these  and  many  more.  I  look  for  them  to- 
day, and  I  fail  to  find  them.  Will  some  of  you  peo- 
ple who  live  here  in  town  tell  me  something  about 
them  ?  Can  you  give  me  any  news  of  them  ?  They 
were  all  my  friends.  More  than  my  friends,"  he 
went  on,  his  voice  rising  a  little,  —  "  more  than  my 
friends.  I  loved  them  every  one.  They  are  not 
here  to-day,  and  my  heart  tells  me  something  has 
happened.  What  is  it  ?  Why  are  they  not  here 
to-day  ?    Why  do  I  miss  them  ?  " 

He  paused  and  turned  to  Mr.  Ransom,  an  old 
white-haired  man  who  sat  in  a  chair  near  the  pul- 
pit. 

"  Brother  Ransom,  you  were  well  acquainted 
with  Brother  Collingsworth.  Where  is  he  to- 
day?" 

The  reply  of  Mr.  Ransom  was  in  so  low  a  tone 
that  the  greater  part  of  the  congregation  failed  to 
hear  it.  But  the  preacher  left  no  doubts  on  their 
minds. 

"  In  heaven  !  "  he  cried  ;  "in  heaven  !  a  place  he 
had  worked  more  than  half  of  a  long  life  to  reach. 
Pray  with  me,  brothers,  sisters,  high  and  low,  rich 
and  poor,  that  every  man,  woman,  and  child  that 


238 


SISTER  JANE. 


has  ever  sat  in  this  church  or  ever  shall,  —  pray  that 
they  may  be  found  in  heaven  with  Brother  Col- 
lingsworth at  the  last  day." 

The  preacher  paused  again  and  wiped  his  face 
with  his  big  red  pocket-handkerchief. 

"I  see  more  changes  than  that,"  he  went  on. 
"  I  see  silks  and  satins,  and  I  hear  them  a-rustling. 
I  see  finger-rings  and  breastpins  a-flashing  and 
a-shining.  Let  the  women  move  their  heads  ever 
so  little,  and  I  see  their  ear-bobs  a-trembling. 
What  is  it  all  for  ?  To  help  you  to  worship  God  ? 
To  help  you  to  humble  yourselves  before  our  Lord, 
the  Saviour  ?  Oh,  you  women !  look  at  me !  Here 
you  are  bedecked  with  your  finery,  while  I  have 
scarcely  a  shirt  to  my  back.  Why,  if  I  thought  that 
silks  and  satins,  and  finger-rings,  and  ear-bobs,  and 
frills  and  finery  would  help  me  to  worship  my  Lord 
and  make  me  humbler  by  so  much  as  a  single  grain, 
I 'd  go  into  the  pulpit  loaded  down  with  them.  If  I 
could  n't  buy  them,  I 'd  beg  and  borry  them  —  I 'd 
do  anything  but  steal  them  —  but  what  I 'd  have 
them.  Why,  if  it 'd  help  me  in  the  sight  of  God,  I 'd 
put  bracelets  on  my  arms,  and  shiny  rings  on  my 
ankles,  and  bells  on  my  toes,  and  feathers  in  my 
hair,  and  when  I  walked  into  a  church,  the  children 
would  scream  and  cry  and  the  gals  faint  because 
they'd  think  I  was  a  Hottentot  or  a  wild  Injun. 
But  their  blessed  mothers  would  console  them  and 
hush  them,  and  say, '  Don't  be  afraid.  He 's  dressed 
up  so  because  it  helps  him  to  praise  and  worship 
God.'  " 


THE  PREACHER  AND  THE  SERMON.  239 


Pausing  again,  the  preacher  with  a  swoop  of  his 
hand  threw  open  the  big  Bible  that  lay  on  the 
pulpit  desk,  and  read  (apparently)  the  first  verse 
that  fell  under  his  eye  :  — 

44  4  They  which  are  the  children  of  the  flesh,  these 
are  not  the  children  of  God  ;  but  the  children  of 
the  promise  are  counted  for  the  seed.'  Don't  make 
any  mistake,  good  friends,"  he  went  on,  44 1  'in 
not  taking  any  text.  I  don't  have  to  hunt  texts  to 
preach  God's  word.  They  swarm  and  flutter  in  my 
mind.  Every  face  before  me  is  a  living,  breathing 
text,  and  there 's  a  text  in  every  minute  that 
passes,  every  day  that  closes. 

44  Paul  was  writing  to  the  Romans,  and  quoting 
from  the  Old  Testament.  Before  the  atonement, 
the  children  of  the  flesh  were  not  the  children  of 
God.  But  when  our  Lord  gave  himself  up  for  the 
sake  of  sinners,  and  was  nailed  to  the  tree,  He 
pointed  the  way  by  which  every  child  of  the  flesh 
may  become  a  child  of  God.  He  showed  the  world 
the  road  of  repentance,  and  suffered  on  the  cross 
that  the  road  might  be  clear.  We  are  all  children 
of  the  flesh ;  we  are  all  little  children  of  the  world  ; 
we  are  all  children  of  God  through  the  Lord  our 
Saviour.  What  is  there  hard  about  a  saying  that 
carries  a  message  of  life  to  a  repentant  sinner? 
You  '11  hear  it  said  on  every  hand  that  love  begets 
love,  that  our  very  nature  tells  us  to  love  them  that 
love  us.  Are  we  dumb  brutes,  that  when  the  Child 
of  Bethlehem  comes  to  us  with  love  and  mercy  in 
his  eyes,  and  words  of  love  and  mercy  on  his  lips, 


240 


SISTER  JANE. 


we  must  harden  our  hearts  and  turn  our  heads 

away  ? 

"  We  are  all  little  children  of  the  world.  All 
of  us  are  sinful,  but  only  a  few  of  us  are  sorrow- 
ful. Why?  Plough,  and  you  '11  have  corns  on 
your  hands ;  sin,  and  continue  to  sin,  and  your 
hearts  will  be  covered  over  with  callousness 
—  case-hardened.  Little  children  of  the  world ! 
And  it  needs  but  a  lifting  of  the  mind,  and  a  bend- 
ing of  the  knee  to  make  us  the  children  of  God. 
Children !  But  what  is  a  child  without  innocence. 
A  monster,  a  deformity  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
man.  But  the  world  swarms  with  them  ;  the  towns 
are  full  of  them  ;  and  they  wander  up  and  down  all 
over  the  land.  They  are  right  here  in  the  sound 
of  my  voice !  They  are  looking  in-  my  face,  and 
a-wondering  what  I 'm  going  to  say  next. 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I 'm  going  to  say  next, 
and  I  '11  say  it  so  loud  that  the  very  walls  '11  hear 
it  and  repeat  it  to  the  roof,  and  the  roof  to  the 
world  above.  There  are  men  and  women  in  this 
church  to-day  (and  I  could  go  and  put  my  hand 
on  them)  that  are  so  deep  in  sin,  so  double-dyed 
in  all  manner  of  iniquity,  that  they  are  afraid  to 
get  down  on  their  knees  and  tell  God  about  it. 
They  have  hid  it  from  men  and  they  think  they 
are  hiding  it  from  the  Almighty.  They  hold 
their  heads  high,  but  how  many  weeks,  how  many 
days,  before  they  will  be  brought  low  ?  If  they 
can't  fool  a  poor  old  man  like  me,  how  can  they 
fool  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ? 


THE  PREACHER  AND  THE  SERMON.  241 


"  Little  children  of  the  world !  TJiey  are  not 
children;  they  are  ravening  wolves,  pursuing  the 
innocent  and  devouring  them.  And  yet  what  a 
simple  thing  stands  between  them  and  a  clear  con- 
science !  Oh,  you  men  and  women  that  know  I 'm 
a-talking  about  you,  why  not  try  repentance? 
When  remorse  pulls  you  out  of  sleep  at  the  dead 
hours  of  night,  why  not  mix  repentance  with  your 
misery  ?  Remorse  ain't  repentance.  Remorse  is 
nothing  but  fear  —  fear  that  your  sins  will  find 
you  at  the  wrong  place  and  at  the  wrong  time. 
Don't  trust  to  remorse.  But  when  it  seizes  hold  of 
you  —  when  it  is  tearing  and  gnawing  your  very 
vitals  —  drop  on  your  knees  and  beg  the  Saviour 
to  take  you  into  the  arms  of  his  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness. And  where  you  can  make  restitution,  make 
it.  And  where  you  can  make  confession,  make  it. 
But  repentance  first,  repentance  last,  and  repen- 
tance all  the  time  ! 

"  And,  oh,  believe  me  !  hard  and  heavy  as  its 
burthens  are,  it  is  not  too  high  a  price  to  pay  for 
a  clean  heart  and  a  contented  mind,  even  if  these 
were  all.  But  they  are  not  all  — they  are  not 
half — they  are  not  the  thousandth  part  of  the 
blessing  that  repentance  will  bring.  It  will  be  as 
a  dazzling  light  to  show  to  you  the  unspeakable 
beauties  of  our  Saviour's  love  and  merc}T. 

"  Don't  think  I 'm  a-talking  about  your  neigh- 
bor. Don't  think  I  'in  a-talking  to  stir  up  the 
feelings  of  the  weak-minded  or  the  tender-hearted. 
Much  as  the  cause  of  Christ  may  need  reviving  in 


242 


SIS  TEE  JANE. 


this  town,  I  Ve  not  come  here  to  revive  it.  I 
ought  to  be  miles  from  here  to-day,  but  I  met  a 
human  wreck  in  the  public  road  a  fortnight  ago  — 
oh,  a  wretched  and  a  miserable  wreck  !  —  that  the 
Lord  must  have  sent  there  that  my  eyes  might  see 
and  my  ears  hear  him.  My  promise  called  me  away, 
but  my  heart  brought  me  here.  And  here  I  am  — 
not  to  publish,  not  to  condemn  (for  who  am  I  that 
I  should  sit  in  judgment?),  but  to  warn,  and,  may- 
be, bring  a  few  hearts  to  repentance." 

The  preacher  paused,  and  when  he  spoke  again 
his  voice  was  low  and  tremulous  with  emotion. 

"  Oh,  unhappy  world  !  where  sin  has  power  to 
smite  and  wound  the  innocent !  Oh,  unhappy  men 
and  women  that  must  drag  their  children  into 
the  mire  of  sin  and  disgrace  !  Look  at  your  feet ! 
You  are  standing  by  an  open  keg  of  powder. 
Soon  the  pitch  a-dripping  from  passion's  torch  will 
kindle  it,  the  explosion  will  come,  and  then  ?  Oh, 
the  pity  of  it !  The  innocent  and  the  helpless  will 
be  blackened  and  burned  by  it." 

In  this  strain  the  sermon,  if  it  could  be  called 
a  sermon,  went  on.  I  have  selected  only  a  few 
paragraphs  from  rough  notes  made  while  the  matter 
was  fresh  in  my  mind.  But  these  can  give  no 
idea  of  the  manner  of  the  preacher.  He  had  the 
gift  of  oratory  —  the  magnetism  that  holds  the 
attention  and  electrifies.  By  a  movement  of  his 
hand  or  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he  threw  a  new  and 
thrilling  meaning  into  the  most  commonplace  re- 
marks.   But  his  magnetism  was  not  necessary  on 


THE  PREACHER  AND   THE  SERMON.  243 

this  occasion  to  hold  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 
The  mysterious  allusions  he  made  to  meeting  a 
wretched  man  in  the  public  road,  and  the  pointed 
—  almost  personal  —  appeals  he  made  to  members 
of  the  congregation  who  were  evidently  known  to 
him,  were  enough  to  arouse  curiosity  to  the  high- 
est pitch  and  hold  it  there. 

Some  of  those  who  went  to  hear  the  sermon  ex- 
pected to  be  surprised  or  amused,  while  others 
hoped  to  be  edified  ;  but  the  effect  went  far 
beyond  surprise  or  amusement,  and,  on  the  vital 
point,  fell  far  short  of  edification.  When  the 
congregation  was  dismissed  and  we  came  out,  I 
noticed  that  the  women,  who  had  a  habit  of  linger- 
ing before  the  church  door  to  exchange  words  of 
greeting  and  frequently  of  gossip,  talked  in  lower 
tones  than  usual,  and  some  of  them  wore  a  scared 
look.  Colonel  Bullard  and  his  wife  entered  their 
shining  carriage,  and  were  whirled  away,  but  Mary 
joined  sister  Jane  and  myself,  and  together  we 
walked  home.  Behind  us  I  could  hear  the  voices 
of  Mrs.  Roby  and  Mrs.  Flewellen,  rising  in  volume 
the  farther  they  got  from  the  church. 

"  I  declare  er,  Sister  Roby !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Flewellen,  "  I  'm  er  all  but  pairlized.  Er  did  you 
ever  hear  er  such  talk  in  all  your  er  born  days  ? 
It 's  a  scandal  and  I  er  don't  care  who  hears  me 
er  say  it.  Who  er  was  he  a-hittin'  at,  do  you  er 
reckon  ?    And  er  what  is  at  the  er  bottom  of  it  ?  " 

It  was  impossible  to  catch  the  reply  that  Mrs. 
Roby  made,  but  Mrs.  Flewellen  kept  on  talking. 


244 


SISTER  JANE. 


«  Why,  the  er  bare  idee  that  anything  can  er 
happen  in  this  town  and  er  me  not  know  nothin' 
't  all  about  it !  Er  Brother  Dannielly  is  a  good 
man  —  there  er  ain't  no  manner  of  er  doubt  about 
that ;  er  he 's  a  godly  man  ;  but  er  somebody  has 
played  on  er  his  mind.  But  er  wouldn't  it  be  er 
the  wonder  of  the  world  if  er  there  was  something 
or  other  er  brewing  ?  " 

I  could  but  reflect  on  the  whimsical  and  insub- 
stantial mind  that  doubted  in  one  breath  and 
believed  in  the  next.  As  for  Mary  she  never  men- 
tioned the  sermon  except  to  comment  on  the  ear- 
nestness of  the  preacher  and  the  remarkable  effect 
of  his  unstudied  gestures.  Sister  Jane  had  nothing 
to  say  whatever,  either  about  the  sermon  or  the 
preacher.  As  we  went  along  I  saw  just  ahead  of 
us  the  lad  who  had  attracted  my  attention  in 
church.  He  was  clinging  to  the  hand  of  a  tall, 
strong-looking  man  who  was  a  stranger  to  me  — 
clinging  to  the  man's  hand  and  talking  as  seriously 
as  a  grown  person.  The  man  was  walking  slowly, 
but  with  a  free  and  swinging  stride  that  betokened 
great  strength  and  vitality.  Presently  I  heard 
the  child  say :  — 

"  Well,  you  know  mighty  well,  Dan,  that  I 
would  n't  have  hurt  the  fan  —  if  it  was  a  fan." 

I  looked  at  sister  Jane  and  saw  that  she  was  re- 
garding the  lad  with  a  curious  expression. 

"  Why,  of  course,  Cap,  /  know  you  would  n't 
have  hurt  the  fan  ;  but  think  of  the  lady  —  she 
did  n't  know  you  would  n't  hurt  the  fan,"  replied 


THE  PREACHER  AND  THE  SERMON.  245 


the  man  in  a  soothing  tone.  44 1  '11  see  her  before 
long  and  ask  her  about  it,  and  I  '11  bet  you  a  thrip 
against  a  shirt  button  that  she  '11  say  she  thought  you 
were  one  of  those  little  town  boys  that  are  always 
up  to  some  mischief." 

"  Will  she  say  that,  Dan  ?  "  the  lad  asked,  a 
pleasant  smile  hovering  around  his  mouth,  but  not 
settling  there. 

44  Why,  of  course  she  will.  I  looked  at  her  once 
when  she  turned  her  head,  and  she 's  got  a  good 
face.  Didn't  you  see  her  put  the  fan  back  and 
push  it  towards  you  ?  " 

44  Yes,  I  did,"  replied  the  boy,  44 but  I  didn't 
know  what  she  meant.  I  thought  she  knew  I 
would  n't  touch  it  after  she  jerked  it  away." 

44 1 'm  sorry  you  did  n't,"  said  the  man. 

44 Well,  why  didn't  you  punch  me  with  your 
thumb,  Dan?" 

44  Ah !  it  was  in  church,  you  know,"  the  man 
suggested. 

44  That 's  so,"  assented  the  lad.  44  Did  you  see 
the  bats,  Dan  ?  Did  you  see  the  big  dark  place 
they  kept  flying  into  ?  Ugh  !  "  he  exclaimed  with 
a  shiver,  44 1  would  n't  go  into  that  place,  not  for 
—  not  for"  — 

44  Not  for  what  ?  "  the  man  asked. 

44  Not  for  the  little  girl  that  was  on  the  ship." 

44  She  said  she  was  going  to  write  to  you,"  re- 
marked the  man. 

44 1  hope  she  will,"  said  the  lad. 

When  we  came  to  the  end  of  the  grove  of  big 


246 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


oaks  in  which  the  church  nestled,  Mary  Bullard, 
sister  J ane,  and  myself  crossed  the  street,  while  the 
stranger  and  the  lad  turned  to  the  right  and  went 
along  on  the  opposite  side. 

"Do  you  know  'em,  William?"  sister  Jane  in- 
quired. 

"  I  never  saw  them  before,"  I  replied.  "  They 
probably  came  on  the  stagecoach  yesterday  after- 
noon." 

14  As  likely  as  not,"  sister  Jane  assented,  and 
relapsed  into  silence. 

"  The  boy  is  a  bright  and  manly-looking  little 
fellow,"  remarked  Mary  with  a  sigh.  I  knew  she 
was  thinking  of  her  brother. 

"  Yes  ;  I  noticed  he  called  his  father  '  Dan,'  "  I 
said. 

"  His  father  !  "  exclaimed  sister  Jane.  "  Why, 
not  a  minnit  ago  you  said  you 'd  never  seen  'em 
before,  and  now  here  you  are  telling  a  part  of  their 
family  history." 

"  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  the  man  is  the  boy's 
father,"  I  explained. 

"  Now  he 's  supposing,"  said  sister  Jane.  "  Mary, 
keep  your  eye  on  these  men." 

"  Oh,  I  do,  Miss  Jane.  Did  you  never  notice 
it  ?  "  was  Mary's  laughing  response.  Sister  Jane 
laughed,  too,  and  the  talk  turned  to  matters  in 
which  I  was  not  interested.  I  indulged  in  a  habit 
formed  long  ago,  of  listening  to  Mary's  voice 
(when  she  was  talking  to  some  one  else)  without 
paying* particular  attention  to  the  words  her  lips 
formed. 


THE  PREACHER  AND  THE  SERMON.  247 


During  the  afternoon,  sister  Jane  was  honored 
by  a  friendly  call  from  Mrs.  Roby  and  Mrs.  Flew- 
ellen.  Mandy  Satterlee  had  gone  to  visit  Mrs. 
Beshears,  as  she  sometimes  did  on  Sunday  after- 
noons. 

"Don't  git  noways  scared,  Jane,"  said  Mrs. 
Eoby,  as  she  and  Mrs.  Flewellen  came  in.  "  We 
ain't  come  to  take  the  place,  because  I  just  saw 
Sister  Flewellen  walkin'  about  in  her  yard,  a-doin' 
nothin'  and  a-lookin'  lonesome,  and  so  I  hollas 
and  says,  says  I,  4  Sister  Flewellen,  supposin'  we 
fling  on  our  things  and  go  around  and  see  Jane,' 
says  I,  '  because  it  '11  give  her  the  all-overs,'  says 
I,  'but  we  ain't  been  there  in  the  longest,  and 
maybe  she  can  put  up  with  us  the  little  time  we 've 
got  to  stay,'  says  I." 

"  Yes,  er  Jane,"  Mrs.  Flewellen  assented,  "  she 
said  them  er  very  words  ;  and  I  says,  says  1, 4  Don't 
you  er  reckon  it  '11  worry  Jane  ?  '  says  I,  and  she 
er  hollas  back  and  er  says,  says  she,  4 1  er  reckon  it 
will,  but  er  she  '11  git  over  it  before  er  Christmas,' 
says  she.  And  er  so  we  flung  on  our  er  things  and 
come,  and  er  here  we  are,  and  as  the  er  twin  calves 
said  er  to  the  old  cow,  4  Er  what  are  you  going  to 
er  do  with  us  ?  '  " 

44 1  hope  you  don't  fit  the  whole  tale,"  remarked 
sister  Jane,  as  she  shook  hands  with  the  two  ladies. 

44 Er  how  is  that,  Jane?"  inquired  Mrs.  Flew- 
ellen. 

44  Why,  the  twin  calves  turned  out  to  be  bull 
yearlings,"  said  sister  Jane  dryly. 


248 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  Now  er  that 's  Jane  all  over !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Flewellen,  laughing  behind  her  fan  to  hide  her 
teeth.  "  Er  did  you  hear  that,  er  Sister  Roby  ?  I 
er  declare,  Jane  !  You  always  er  give  as  good  as 
anybody  sends — er  don't  she,  Sister  Roby?" 

But  Mrs.  Roby  had  other  fish  to  fry.  She  had 
seated  herself,  but  instead  of  paying  any  attention 
to  Mrs.  Flewellen's  commonplace  remarks,  she 
craned  her  neck,  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the 
other,  trying  to  look  behind  her.    Then  she  said  :  — 

"  I  don't  see  Mandy  Satterlee,  Jane.  Where 's 
she  gone?    She  ain't  here,  is  she?  " 

"  Mandy 's  gone  out  to  take  the  air,"  rej)lied 
sister  Jane.  "  If  you  've  got  airy  message  for  her, 
I  '11  tell  her  about  it  if  I  can  recall  it." 

"  Was  she  at  church  to-day,  Jane  ?  " 

"  If  she  was,  she  run  out  somewhere  betwixt  the 
sermon  and  the  doxology,"  sister  Jane  answered, 
"  for  I  found  dinner  ready  and  a-waiting  for  me  ; 
and  there  was  nobody  to  cook  it  but  Mandy." 

"Well,  I  do  hope  she  didn't  go,  Jane,"  said 
Mrs.  Roby,  with  well-affected  solicitude,  "  because 
I  know  in  reason  you  must  have  heard  what  the 
preacher  said  about  her?  " 

"  Which  preacher  ?  "  inquired  sister  Jane  with 
amazement. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Jimmy  Dannielly,"  replied  Mrs. 
Roby  in  a  tone  less  confident  than  before. 

Sister  Jane  regarded  Mrs.  Roby  with  a  stare 
in  which  amazement,  pity,  and  curiosity  were  all 
mingled. 


THE  PREACHER  AND   THE  SERMON.  249 

44  Well,  for  the  Lord's  sake !  "  she  said  after  a 
while,  raising  her  hands  and  allowing  them  to  fall 
helplessly  in  her  lap. 

"  Why,  you  must  'a'  heard  him,  Jane,  because  I 
saw  you  there  with  my  own  eyes,  and  you  could  n't 
'a'  helped  but  hear  him."  Mrs.  Roby's  voice  had 
grown  weak. 

u  Now,  Maria  !  "  cried  sister  Jane,  in  a  tone  in 
which  scorn  and  contempt  played  a  large  part, 
"  do  you  mean  to  set  flat-footed  in  that  cheer  there 
and  tell  me  that  such  a  man  as  Jimmy  Dannielly 
would  leave  bigger  game  and  fly  at  that  poor  gal 
—  and  he  not  a-knowing  her  from  a  side  of  sole- 
leather?" 

"Well,  you  heard  what  he  said,  Jane,"  Mrs. 
Roby  explained,  "  because  your  ears  is  as  good  as 
mine  any  day,  if  not  better,  because  I  ain't  never 
intirely  got  over  that  risin'  that  busted  in  my 
head  before  I  had  my  first  baby,  and  I  know  you 
could  n't  'a'  kept  from  hearin'  every  word,  and  if 
he  did  n't  mean  Mandy  Satterlee  who  in  the  round 
world  could  he  'a'  meant,  because  when  anybody 
talks  that  plain,  specially  in  the  pulpit,  they  're  jest 
obliged  to  mean  somebody ;  now  who  did  he  mean  ? 
I  wish  you 'd  tell  me  that." 

Sister  Jane  settled  her  high  back-comb  a  little 
more  firmly  on  her  head  —  a  favorite  gesture  of 
hers  when  patience  was  giving  way  to  irritation. 
"Maria,  age  don't  improve  you  one  single  bit," 
she  said.  "  You  ought  to  know  mighty  well  from 
what  you 've  heard  of  Jimmy  Dannielly  that  he 


250 


SISTER  JANE. 


ain't  the  man  to  stumble  over  names.  If  he  did  n't 
call  'em  out,  it  was  n't  because  he  was  afeard,  but 
because  he  did  n't  want  to.  He 'd  just  as  soon  'a' 
called  the  name  as  not,  every  bit  and  grain.  My 
hearing  ain't  as  keen  as  it  used  to  be,  but  if  I  've 
got  any  ears  at  all,  Jimmy  Dannielly  said  the  peo- 
ple he  was  talking  about  was  right  there  in  the 
house ;  he  said  he  could  go  and  put  his  hand  on 
'em  ;  he  said  they  held  their  heads  high,  and  that 
they  would  soon  be  brought  low.  That 's  what  he 
said.  Does  Mandy  Satterlee  hold  her  head  high  ? 
Did  you  ever  see  her  strutting  around  these 
streets  ?  " 

Sister  Jane  closed  her  lips  firmly,  as  though  she 
had  no  more  to  say.  Mrs.  Roby  looked  at  Mrs. 
Flewellen,  as  if  inviting  assistance,  but  that  lady 
shook  her  head  slowly  and  solemnly. 

"  Er  he  said  them  er  very  words,  Sister  Roby  — 
er  them  very  identical  er  words.  I  says  to  myself 
er  at  the  time,  says  I,  4 1  er  wonder  who  it  is  er  in 
this  house  er  that  the  cap  fits,'  er  says  I." 

"  I  believe  he  did  say  that,  Jane,  but  the  whole 
thing  took  me  back  so,  that  I  pledge  you  my  naked 
word  that  I  forgot  everything  about  what  he  said 
excepting  that  he  was  a-scoring  somebody,  I  did  n't 
know  who,  and  I  thought  it  was  mighty  quare  if 
Mandy  Satterlee  was  a-settin'  in  the  back  of  the 
church  and  he  was  a-hittin'  at  her,  poor  thing, 
'stead  of  trying  to  lift  her  up,  and  I 'd  'a'  looked 
back  to  see  if  I  could  see  Mandy,  but  I  know  some 
of  the  men  would  'a'  thought  right  straight  that  I 
was  a-lookin'  at  them,  because  you  know  how  con- 


THE  PREACHER  AND  THE  SERMON.  251 


ceited  they  are,  Jane,  —  all  except  William,  here, 
who  I  look  on  more  as  a  member  of  my  own  family 
than  anything  else,  —  and  I  says  to  myself,  says  I, 
4 1  '11  go  over  and  see  Jane,  and  find  out  if  Mandy 
Satterlee  was  at  church,  because  I  know  if  she 
was  Jane  '11  be  a-b'ilin'  over,  and  no  wonder,'  says 
I,  because  what  right  has  a  preacher  or  anybody 
else  got  to  attack  anybody  that 's  a-tryin'  their  best 
to  get  along  and  do  right,  for  I  reely  do  believe 
that  Mandy  Satterlee  is  tryin'  to  do  what 's  right, 
because  she  could  mighty  easy  do  wrong  if  she 
wanted  to  ;  and  there 's  another  thing,  Jane  ;  who 
was  that  fine-lookin'  man  a-settin'  behind  the  pew 
right  next  to  yours  ;  you  could  n't  'a'  helped  seein' 
him  because  he  had  his  hand  on  a  boy's  shoulder 
in  the  pew  right  next  to  yours,  and  you  could  'a' 
retched  out  and  tetched  him  with  the  end  of  your 
fingers,  —  not  the  man,  but  the  boy,  —  and  I  saw 
the  man  lookin'  at  you,  and  I  says  to  myself,  says 
I,  6  Honey,  if  Jane  could  turn  and  see  you  a-starin' 
at  her  in  that  fashion  she 'd  make  you  feel  like 
sinkin'  through  the  floor,'  says  I." 

Mrs.  Roby  paused  from  sheer  lack  of  breath. 

"  I  saw  the  child,  but  I  did  n't  see  the  man  until 
we  came  out  of  church,  and  then  I  saw  only  his 
back,"  replied  sister  J ane.  "  I  don't  know  him 
from  Adam's  cat." 

And  so  the  conversation  ran  on  —  a  great  many 
words  about  nothing  in  particular  —  a  singular 
mixture  of  friendliness,  hypocrisy,  cant,  and  insin- 
cerity. The  ladies  went  away  after  a  while,  and  a 
restful  silence  filled  the  house. 


XVIII. 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S. 

The  next  morning,  shortly  after  breakfast,  there 
came  a  knock  to  which  I  resi3onded.  I  was  some- 
what surprised,  on  opening  the  door,  to  see  the 
stranger  whom  I  had  noticed  the  day  before  as  we 
came  away  from  church  ;  and  with  him  was  the 
lad  of  whom  mention  has  been  made. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  stranger  with  a  bow 
that  stamped  him  at  once  as  a  man  of  some  refine- 
ment :  "  I  believe  you  take  boarders  here  ?  " 

44  After  a  fashion,"  I  replied,  hesitating  a  mo- 
ment. 

44 1  am  told  it  is  a  very  pleasant  fashion,"  he  re- 
marked with  a  smile. 

44  But  you  will  have  to  see  my  sister,"  I  sug- 
gested, 44  that  is,  if  you  "  — 

44  Naturally  —  of  course,"  said  the  stranger,  in- 
terrupting me  with  the  most  genial  laugh  imagin- 
able ;  44  here  as  everywhere  the  word  is,  4  Make  way 
for  the  ladies  ! '    May  I  see  your  sister  ?  " 

I  invited  the  gentleman  in,  —  I  was  sure  he  was 
both  a  gentleman  and  a  reader  of  books,  —  placed 
a  chair  for  him  and  one  for  the  lad,  and  went  in 
search  of  sister  Jane.    I  found  her  somewhat  flur- 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S.  253 

ried  over  some  trifling  detail  of  housekeeping,  and 
not  in  the  best  humor  in  the  world.  I  stood  expect- 
ant a  moment  waiting  for  her  irritation  to  subside. 
Whereupon  she  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Good  Lord,  William  !  don't  be  standing  there 
like  you  was  deaf,  dumb,  blind,  and  cripple.  Say 
what  you 've  got  to  say  and  then  go  and  let  me 
have  a  minnit's  peace.  If  I  ever  undertake  to 
make  any  more  jelly  out  of  dried  apples  I  hope  I 
may  be  forgiven  beforehand  for  the  sins  I  '11  com- 
mit. You  'ye  got  something  on  your  mind, 
William ;  spit  it  out." 

I  told  her  there  was  a  gentleman  in  the  parlor 
who  wanted  to  see  her  about  engaging  board. 

"Well,  you  can  jest  go  right  back  and  tell  him 
to  take  himself  off.  I 've  got  more  boarders  now 
than  I  can  stomach.  They  are  all  like  lambs  when 
they  first  come ;  butter  would  n't  melt  in  their 
mouths ;  but  by  the  time  they 've  swallowed  one 
meal  they  are  ready  to  strut  around  and  spit  on 
the  floor,  and  do  like  they  owned  the  whole  house 
with  the  trash-barrel  throw'd  in  for  good  measure. 
No ;  go  and  tell  the  man,  whoever  he  is,  that 
enough  of  a  good  thing  is  enough,  and  too  much  is 
the  greatest  plenty." 

Seeing  that  I  stood  my  ground,  sister  Jane 
paused  and  stared  at  me.  "  The  gentleman  that 
wants  to  see  you,"  I  said,  "  is  the  stranger  who 
walked  before  us  from  church  yesterday.  I  have 
already  told  him  that  you  will  see  him  in  a  mo- 
ment." 


254 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  Well,  you  're  taking  a  good  deal  on  yourself, 
William,  I  must  say,"  sister  Jane  snapped.  Then 
in  the  same  breath,  but  in  a  far  different  tone,  "  I 
look  like  a  fright,  I  reckon.  How 's  my  hair  be- 
hind there  ?  I 've  jest  got  to  change  this  cape.  It 
smells  like  somebody 'd  rubbed  it  with  bacon  rind. 
Go  back  and  tell  him  I  '11  be  in  directly,  and  if 
he  looks  like  anybody,  try  to  make  yourself  polite, 
and  don't  look  all  draw'd  up  like  you  was  afeard 
somebody  was  going  to  say  '  boo  '  at  you." 

I  hardly  had  time  to  deliver  my  message  before 
sister  Jane  followed  me.  With  easy  address  and 
a  genial  smile  the  gentleman  bowed.  "  This  is 
Miss  Wornum,  I  believe?"  Sister  Jane  nodded 
her  head.    "  My  name  is  Cowardin." 

"  Did  n't  I  see  that  child  at  church  yesterday  ?  " 
asked  sister  Jane. 

"  What  about  it,  Cap  ?  "  Mr.  Cowardin  inquired 
with  a  broad  smile. 

The  lad  hung  his  head  and  fell  to  picking  at  the 
side  of  the  chair  on  which  he  sat.  Presently  he 
half  raised  his  head,  with  a  smile  and  a  blush,  very 
much  as  a  girl  would  do.  "  Yes,  ma'am,  you  saw 
me,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  my  feelings  have  been  hurt  about  you 
ever  sence,"  sister  Jane  confessed.  "  Wait  a 
minnit." 

She  whipt  out  of  the  room,  and  presently  came 
back  with  her  turkey-tail  fan. 

"  There,  honey,"  she  said  handing  it  to  the  lad. 
"  Take  it  and  look  at  it  to  your  heart's  content, 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S.  255 


and  you  may  tear  it  up  for  what  I  care.  I 've  been 
feeling  mean  ever  sence  I  jerked  it  away  from  you 
yesterday." 

"  It  was  n't  anything  to  feel  bad  about,"  the  lad 
protested  stoutly,  but  I  could  see  that  his  eyes 
shone,  and  that  the  blush  on  his  tanned  face 
deepened. 

"  You  make  too  much  of  it,  Miss  Wornum," 
said  Mr.  Cowardin.  "  The  biggest  things  soon 
pass  out  of  a  child's  mind." 

"  Yes,  but  they  remember  the  little  things  — 
the  things  that  have  a  taste  of  meanness  in  'em," 
remarked  sister  Jane  positively. 

"  That  is  so,"  Mr.  Cowardin  assented.  "  It  is  so 
in  my  case  anyhow."  He  paused,  allowed  his  eyes 
to  rest  on  the  floor,  and  seemed  to  be  lost  in  thought. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  I  wanted  to  get 
nice  quarters  for  that  boy  of  mine.  I  believe  you 
take  boarders  only  by  the  day  ;  but  I  hope  you  '11 
take  Cap  there  and  give  him  a  bed  as  well  as 
board.  You  '11  find  him  the  least  trouble  in  the 
world.  I  '11  not  bother  you  myself.  The  tavern 
is  good  enough  for  me." 

Sister  J ane  looked  at  the  boy,  and  then  looked 
at  Mr.  Cowardin. 

The  latter  evidently  understood  what  was  in  her 
mind.  He  fumbled  about  in  his  pockets,  and  drew 
forth  a  small  key. 

"  Cap,  go  to  the  tavern  and  bring  the  lady  a 
handful  of  shells  from  your  trunk." 

The  lad  took  the  key  and  was  about  to  rush 


256 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


away.  Suddenly  he  bethought  himself,  took  the 
fan  from  the  chair  where  he  had  laid  it,  and  handed 
it  to  sister  Jane. 

"  It  is  a  nice  fan,  and  I 'm  very  much  obliged  to 
you,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  you  're  a  thousand  times  welcome,  honey, 
and  more  too  !  "  exclaimed  sister  Jane  heartily. 

"  I  sent  him  away,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin,  when 
the  child  was  gone,  "  because  you  were  ready  to 
ask  me  some  questions  about  him.  It  worries  him 
very  much  to  hear  people  talking  about  him." 

"  Is  his  mother  dead  ?  "  sister  Jane  asked. 

"  I  don't  kuow  whether  she  's  dead  or  alive." 

"  Is  he  your  son  ?  " 

"  Except  through.  Adam,  he 's  no  relation  of 
mine  that  I  know  of." 

"  Well,"  said  sister  Jane  bluntly,  "  I  hope  you 
ain't  trying  to  pack  him  off  on  me  and  then  run 
away  and  leave  him." 

Mr.  Cowardin  threw  his  head  back  and  indulged 
in  a  laugh  genuine  enough  to  dispel  sister  J ane's 
suspicions. 

"  Eun  away  and  leave  Cap !  "  he  cried.  "  Why, 
I 've  carried  him  on  my  back  hundreds  of  miles ; 
I 've  gone  hungry  to  feed  him  ;  and  I 've  suffered 
from  cold  to  keep  him  warm." 

"  Then  who  is  he-  and  what  is  he  ?  "  asked  sister 
Jane  with  genuine  curiosity. 

Mr.  Cowardin  stroked  his  iron-gray  beard 
thoughtfully.  "  The  most  that  I  know  —  the  most 
that  I  can  say  —  is  that  he  is  one  of  the  Little 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S.  257 


Children  of  the  World."  He  smiled  as  he  said 
this,  and  I  knew  he  had  in  his  mind  the  sermon 
we  had  heard  the  day  before.  "  In  1850,  a  party 
of  us  started  from  St.  Louis  to  go  to  California. 
The  gold  fever  was  at  its  height  then,  and  as  soon 
as  the  news  got  abroad  that  a  few  of  us  were 
going,  hundreds  asked  to  join  us.  We  were  glad 
enough  of  their  company.  We  asked  no  questions. 
We  just  told  everybody  that  came  that  they  were 
welcome  to  go  with  us.  It  made  no  difference 
whether  a  man  was  a  thief,  or  a  vagabond,  or  an 
honest  man.  I  was  pretty  much  of  a  vagabond 
myself  about  that  time." 

"  Well,  you  don't  look  like  it,"  said  sister  Jane. 

Mr.  Cowardin  laughed.  "  Looks  don't  amount 
to  much,  Miss  Wornum.  I  used  to  think  they  did 
when  I  was  young.  Why,  the  worst  man  I  ever 
saw  was  fixed  up  just  like  a  preacher  one  Sunday, 
and  I  saw  him  hanged  the  next  Friday."  He 
paused  as  if  the  incident  swarmed  with  unpleasant  1 
memories.  With  a  quick  gesture  he  went  on. 
"  Well,  hundreds  wanted  to  go,  and  we  told  them 
to  be  ready  on  a  certain  day,  the  only  conditions 
being  that  they  should  carry  along  provisions 
enough  to  last  four  months.  We  didn't  know 
what  might  happen.  When  the  day  came  we 
found  that  there  were  forty  wagons.  .  We  thought 
there  would  be  more,  but  these  were  enough. 
Before  starting,  my  partners  and  myself  saw  that 
there  would  have  to  be  some  sort  of  organization, 
somebody  to  manage  and  control.    So  we  called 


258 


SISTER  JANE. 


the  men  together  (there  was  a  pretty  big  crowd  of 
them),  and  I  told  them  that  there  must  be  some 
one  to  take  charge  of  matters  whenever  it  became 
necessary.  I  explained  the  matter  as  well  as  I 
could,  and  then  some  one  asked  me  my  name,  and 
before  I  knew  it  they  had  made  me  Captain. 

"  This  pleased  the  men  better  than  it  did  me, 
but  no  matter ;  the  choice  had  been  made.  I 
sent  twenty  wagons  twelve  hours  ahead,  in  charge 
of  one  of  my  partners,  and  followed  with  the  rest. 
We  kept  up  this  order  for  many  days.  The  fifth 
day  out  from  St.  Louis,  as  I  was  riding  ahead  of 
the  wagons  (I  had  my  saddle-horse)  I  saw  a  child 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  trail.  It  was  crying, 
and  was  so  badly  scared  that  its  limbs  jerked  as 
if  it  were  afflicted  with  some  queer  kind  of  disease. 
I  jumped  from  the  saddle  and  took  the  little  fellow 
in  my  arms,  and  soon  had  him  quieted.  When  I 
asked  him  his  name,  he  shook  his  head  and  said, 
1 '  Fraley,'  or  something  that  sounded  like  it.  He 
could  talk  plainly  for  a  child  so  young,  and  I  sup- 
posed of  course  that  4  Fraley  '  was  his  name. 

"  Naturally,  I  thought  he  had  been  accidentally 
left  by  the  wagons  ahead  of  us.  There  were  sev- 
eral families  along,  and  perhaps  twenty  children 
not  larger  than  this  child.  I  judged  that  he  was 
asleep  in  the  rear  wagon,  and  had  in  some  way 
fallen  out  —  just  how  I  could  not  imagine.  I 
thought  that  as  soon  as  he  was  missed  some  one 
would  come  rushing  back  along  the  trail,  searching 
for  him.    So  I  made  no  bother  about  the  matter. 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S.  259 


I  let  the  little  chap  ride  on  the  saddle  in  front  of 
me  until  he  fell  asleep,  and  then  put  him  in  charge 
of  one  of  the  women  in  my  train,  telling  her  to 
feed  him  and  take  care  of  him  until  his  people 
called  for  him. 

"  In  this  way  I  made  my  mind  easy  about  the 
child,  and  for  some  hours  forgot  him  altogether. 
When  I  did  go  to  the  woman's  wagon  to  inquire 
about  him,  he  was  wide  awake  and  lively,  but  as 
soon  as  he  saw  me  he  held  out  his  little  hands  to 
come  to  me,  and  refused  to  be  comforted  when  I 
started  to  ride  off  without  him.  The  upshot  of  it 
was  that  I  took  him  on  my  saddle,  and  after  that, 
as  no  one  came  to  claim  him,  he  used  to  ride  in 
front  of  me  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  I  became  so 
accustomed  to  his  company  that  he  was  n't  in  my 
way  at  all.  The  woman  took  care  of  him  and 
tidied  him  up  when  he  was  n't  riding  with  me,  but 
after  a  while  I  took  him  in  my  own  wagon  at 
night." 

"  Well,  for  the  Lord's  sake !  did  n't  you  never 
inquire  about  his  folks  ?  "  sister  Jane  asked. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Miss  Wornum,  I  had 
bigger  things  than  babies  on  my  mind  just  then. 
I  had  to  think  for  all  those  people,  and  we  were 
going  through  a  dangerous  part  of  the  country. 
I  had  to  put  a  stop  to  gambling ;  I  had  to  settle  all 
disputes  and  put  down  all  quarrels.  The  men 
were  not  members  of  any  Sunday-school  at  that 
time  ;  they  had  knives,  pistols,  bad  tempers,  and  a 
good  deal  of  mean  whiskey  along,  and  you  know 


260 


SISTER  JANE. 


what  that  means.  I  might  have  done  many  things 
that  I  did  n't  do.  But  I  found  out  afterwards 
that  the  child  was  really  a  waif.  There  was  no 
one  to  lay  claim  to  it.  The  woman  I  was  telling 
you  of  pointed  out  a  man  —  a  slouching, ugly  fel- 
low—  who  scared  the  boy  nearly  to  death  every 
time  he  came  near ;  but  I  thought  little  of  that 
until  one  day  when  we  were  eating  dinner  the 
child  screamed  and  ran  to  me,  and  I  saw  the  man 
going  by.  I  called  him  back  and  asked  why  the 
youngster  was  afraid  of  him.  His  explanation 
was  that  on  one  occasion,  in  a  spirit  of  mischief, 
he  had  made  a  face  at  the  little  chap.  This  was  a 
likely  story,  for  the  man  was  as  ugly  as  sin  when 
he  screwed  his  face  up  to  show  me  how  the  boy 
had  been  scared. 

"  I  had  no  time  to  think  it  over  then,  but  I  have 
thought  since  that  the  man  knew  all  about  the 
child.  Anyhow  I  let  the  matter  pass.  The  young- 
ster stayed  with  me,  and  nearly  half  the  time  he 
was  in  the  saddle  in  front  of  me.  The  men  got 
to  calling  him  Young  Cap,  and  I  began  to  call 
him  Cap  myself,  and  have  kept  it  up  ever  since. 
We 've  seen  hard  times  and  good  times  together. 
We 've  lived  like  wild  beasts  in  the  woods,  and 
we 've  lived  like  princes,  and  through  it  all  we 've 
stuck  together,  and  I  would  n't  like  it  much  if 
somebody  was  to  jump  up  some  day  and  say,  4  That 
boy  is  mine  and  not  yours,'  and  prove  it." 

"  Colonel  Bullard' s  little  boy  was  stolen  several 
years  ago,"  I  remarked.    "  Maybe  "  — 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S.  261 


"  So  I  have  been  told,"  replied  Mr.  Cowardin. 

"  It  would  be  queer,  now  "  — 

44  Goodness,  William  !  "  exclaimed  sister  Jane. 
"  How  could  Freddy  Bullard  be  found  a-settin'  by 
the  road  the  other  side  of  nowhere  ?  " 

44  It  would  be  very  queer,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Cow- 
ardin ;  "in  fact,  next  to  impossible  in  my  opinion. 
Yet  the  thought  that  it  might  be  so  was  what 
brought  me  here." 

"  You  knew  the  circumstance,  then  ? "  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  I  chanced  to  be  in  this  town  the  day  it  hap- 
pened," Mr.  Cowardin  said.  44 1  remember  you 
very  well.  That  night  you  went  to  the  show  with 
a  young  lady  —  Miss  Bullard  —  hunting  for  the 
lost  child.  The  man  at  the  entrance  of  the  tent 
took  you  through,  and  walked  part  of  the  way 
home  with  you.  He  has  changed  greatly,  has  n't 
he?" 

44  Well,  upon  my  word  !  "  I  cried.  44  And  you 
were  that  man  !  You  were  very  kind  to  us,  but 
your  voice  was  sharper  —  severer  —  than  it  is 
now." 

44  Ah,  I  was  on  duty  then,"  he  explained  with  a 
laugh.  44  Moreover,  five  years  of  such  experiences 
as  I  have  had  are  calculated  to  take  the  rough 
edges  off  a  man  —  particularly  when  he  has  seen 
some  of  his  plans  turn  out  to  be  successful." 

44  And  you  think  this  child  may  possibly  be  little 
Freddy  Bullard  ?  "  I  ventured  to  remark. 

44  As  I  said,  I  think  it  is  next  to  impossible  if 


262 


SISTER  JANE. 


we  take  all  the  facts  into  consideration.  And  yet 
where  there  is  one  chance  in  a  million,  it  does  no 
good  to  doubt  or  to  hesitate.  I  remember  an  inci- 
dent in  California  that  will  fit  this  case.  I  had 
worked  in  the  ditches  and  gulches  for  months,  and 
had  hardly  found  enough  gold  to  buy  a  pound  of 
flour.  Times  were  squally,  I  can  tell  you.  I  had 
worked  new  claims,  and  dug  over  old  ones,  and  at 
last  I  just  naturally  gave  up.  I  had  no  hope,  and 
did  n't  care  for  anything  except  the  boy.  I  could 
have  picked  up  a  fair  living  in  the  gambling-sa- 
loons ;  but  there  was  Cap.  I  took  him  with  me  one 
day,  and  began  to  work  over  an  old  claim  that  had 
once  been  the  richest  in  the  camp.  At  last  I 
paused.  I  was  hot,  tired,  and  disgusted.  I  looked 
at  Cap.  He  was  sitting  on  the  bank  nodding  in 
the  shade  of  a  pine.  I  woke  him  and  asked  him, 
half  in  fun  and  half  in  earnest,  where  I  must  dig 
to  find  gold  ?  4  Right  under  me,'  he  said.  I 
told  him  to  get  from  under  the  swing  of  the  pick. 
He  rolled  away,  and  was  sound  asleep  before  you 
could  snap  your  fingers.  Now  the  spot  where  he 
was  sitting  was  a  rock,  and  it  jutted  out  from  the 
bank  considerably,  showing  that  it  had  been  par- 
tially dug  around  already. 

"  I  swung  the  pick  over  my  head  and  tried  to 
drive  it  through  the  rock.  But  it  sank  into  the 
ground  up  to  the  eye.  When  I  pried  against  it, 
the  rock  fell  forward  at  my  feet  splashing  mud 
and  water  in  my  eyes,  and  when  I  opened  them 
again  "  — 

i 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S.  263 

The  lad  came  running  in  at  this  moment.  He 
had  the  shells  in  a  beautiful  little  basket. 

"  Oh,  Dan ! "  he  cried,  and  then  stopped  still 
and  waited. 

"  What  did  I  see,  Cap,  that  day  in  the  gulch, 
when  I  got  my  eyes  full  of  mud  and  water  ?  —  the 
last  day  we  worked  in  the  ditches  together  ?  " 

"  Goodness,  Dan !  You  saw  gold.  You  said 
that  if  I  had  n't  been  asleep  you 'd  have  yelled  so 
that  everybody  in  the  camp  would  have  come  run- 
ning." 

"  I  believe  you  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Cowardin.  "  I 
had  struck  a  pocket,  and  in  that  pocket  I  found  as 
much  gold  as  I  wanted." 

Sister  Jane  shook  her  head  incredulously. 
"  Well !  you  are  the  first  human  being  in  this 
world  that  ever  found  as  much  gold  as  he  wanted." 

"I  have  told  you  the  simple  truth,"  was  Mr. 
Cowardin's  reply.  "  I  found  as  much  as  I  wanted ; 
but  I  took  all  I  found.  I  had  been  working 
harder  than  any  negro  ever  worked  for  three 
years,  but  the  nuggets  I  found  in  that  pocket  were 
enough  to  make  a  dozen  men  rich." 

"You  know  the  old  saying,"  remarked  sister 
Jane,  "  4  Easy  come,  easy  go.'  " 

"  But  for  that  boy,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin,  "  the 
saying  would  have  been  partly  true  in  my  case." 
He  turned  to  the  boy.  "  Well,  Cap,  how  about 
the  shells  ?    Did  you  find  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Dan !  the  pretty  pink  one  that  I  wanted 
to  give  the  lady  is  lost.    I  can't  find  it  anywhere." 


264 


SI ST E R  JANE. 


"  No ;  it  is  somewhere  in  my  trunk.  I  saw  it 
the  other  day.  We  '11  get  it  when  we  go  back  to 
the  tavern." 

The  shells  were  exquisitely  beautiful  —  the 
most  peculiar  I  had  ever  seen  before  or  have  ever 
seen  since.  Mr.  Cowardin  explained  that  they 
wrere  found  on  the  coast  of  an  island  in  the  South 
Seas.  Sister  Jane  was  in  ecstasies  over  them. 
She  had  two  old  conchs  that  she  had  treasured  for 
years  on  account  of  the  wonderfully  delicate  pink 
color  that  marked  them.  She  looked  at  every 
shell,  —  there  were  dozens  of  fine  ones,  —  and  then 
reluctantly  handed  them  back  to  the  child. 

"  They  are  for  you,"  he  said,  putting  his  hands 
behind  him  with  a  gesture  that  was  both  graceful 
and  gentle. 

"  For  me  !  "  cried  sister  Jane.  "  Well,  I  de- 
clare, honey,  nobody  in  the  world  could  'a'  given 
me  anything  that  I 'd  prize  more.  I  '11  empty  'em 
out  directly,  so  you  can  get  your  basket." 

"  The  basket  goes  along  with  them,"  the  lad 
explained. 

"  If  you  '11  notice,  Miss  Wornum,  it 's  a  very 
pretty  piece  of  workmanship.  It  is  made  of  the 
scales  of  a  fish  they  catch  in  the  South  Seas." 

Sister  Jane's  delight  shone  in  her  face,  and 
well  it  might.  The  scales  had  been  polished  until 
they  wore  the  lustre  of  pearls.  They  shimmered 
and  gleamed  in  the  light. 

"  Honey,  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  I  don't  know 
what  I 've  done  to  have  such  good  luck.    I  hope  I 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S.  265 


won't  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  find  that  I 've 
been  dreaming.  If  this  is  what  I  get  by  being 
mean  to  a  nice  boy,  I  '11  be  mean  to  the  next  one 
I  see.  But  I  don't  know  where  in  the  world  I  '11 
find  another  as  nice  and  as  clever  as  you  are." 

The  child  blushed  with  pleasure,  and  I  listened 
with  some  degree  of  astonishment,  for  I  had  never 
before  heard  sister  Jane  pay  such  a  compliment  to 
any  one,  especially  to  one  of  the  male  sex. 

"  You  may  run  out  in  the  garden  and  pick  some 
roses,"  she  said. 

" Oh,  may  I?"  cried  the  lad.  He  waited  for 
no  confirmation,  but  darted  from  the  room. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while,  and  then  Mr. 
Co  war  din  spoke. 

"  If  you  can  take  Cap,  Miss  Wornum,  it  would 
relieve  me  of  a  great  deal  of  anxiety  and  not  add 
to  yours.  He  is  a  manly  little  fellow,  but  gentle 
and  thoughtful.  He  will  not  be  here  long  before 
he  can  discover  from  your  countenance  whether 
you  are  pleased  or  displeased,  and  he  will  do  what 
he  can  to  please  you.  He  has  seen  rough  times, 
rough  countries,  and  rough  people,  but  he  has  been 
with  me  so  long  that  he  has  old  ways  about  him. 
He  's  the  best  child  I  ever  saw  to  be  full  of  health 
and  fun." 

"  Well,  I  '11  talk  with  William,"  said  sister 
Jane.  "  I  '11  find  out  how  he  feels  about  it.  I 
think  we  can  fix  up  for  the  child —  that  is,  if  you 
think  the  place  will  suit  him." 

Mr.  Cowardin  laughed.    "  Don't  allow  that  idea 


266 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


to  trouble  you.  He  will  be  delighted.  I  shall  feel 
lonely  without  Cap  at  night,  for  he  has  been  my 
only  companion  for  many  a  long  day,  but  he  can 
come  and  sit  with  me  sometimes  at  the  tavern 
until  I  find  better  quarters." 

"  Or  you  can  come  and  sit  here  with  us  after 
tea,"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes  ;  I  had  intended  to  ask  permission  to  do 
that,"  he  said. 

"  Or  you  can  take  your  meals  here  if  the  fare 
suits  you,"  remarked  sister  Jane.  "Not  that  I 
want  any  more  boarders.  The  Lord  knows  them 
that  I  Ve  got  are  enough  to  make  a  sinner  out  of 
a  saint." 

"  That  would  be  better  —  a  great  deal  better. 
I  could  be  with  Cap  oftener,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin 
eagerly.  "  I  am  not  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  boy. 
He  is  a  pleasure  to  me  every  hour  of  the  day. 
But  he  must  go  to  school  —  that  is  certain  —  it 
can't  be  helped."  He  spoke  as  if  he  were  repeat- 
ing an  old  argument  that  he  had  had  with  himself. 
"  I  have  skimmed  through  some  books  with  him, 
and  he  can  read,  write,  and  cipher  ;  but  he  must 
go  to  school :  he  must  get  with  other  boys,  good  or 
bad.  And  then  I  want  him  to  have  a  place  that 
will  be  like  home  to  him.  He  has  never  known 
what  a  home  is  —  and  here  he  can  find  out  about 
it.  As  to  terms,"  Mr.  Cowardin  went  on  after  a 
pause,  "  make  them  to  suit  yourself.  Just  imagine 
that  we  are  to  give  you  no  end  of  trouble  and  fix 
your  price  accordingly.    That  is  the  way  to  do  busi- 


A  NEW  BOARDER  AT  SISTER  JANE'S.  267 

ness  with  strangers.  Fix  a  good  round  sum  and 
make  them  pay  in  advance." 

"  I  '11  not  grumble  at  what  I  get  out  of  you," 
said  sister  Jane  bluntly.  "If  I  grumble  at  all 
it  '11  be  at  what  I  don't  get." 

And  so  from  that  time  forth,  and  for  many 
days,  Mr.  Cowardin  and  the  lad  became  a  part 
and  parcel  of  our  household. 


XIX. 


THE  LAD'S  RIDE. 

It  came  to  pass  that  Mr.  Cowardin  gave  us  a 
great  deal  of  his  company,  especially  in  the  even- 
ings, and  it  was  very  pleasant  company,  too,  for 
he  was  not  merely  a  fluent  talker.  Travel,  wide 
experience,  and  keen  observation  had  given  him 
something  to  talk  about.  He  visited  all  parts  of 
the  United  States,  the  islands  of  the  sea,  and  the 
countries  of  the  east  that  are  most  conveniently 
reached  by  going  west.  He  was  well  educated  to 
begin  with,  and  this  fact  had  served  him  well. 
When  information  comes  to  the  mind  of  a  man 
who  has  prepared  himself  properly  it  goes  through 
a  sifting  process  that  transforms  it  into  know- 
ledge that  is  power  when  it  is  active,  and  culture 
when  it  is  quiescent. 

It  may  be  imagined,  therefore,  that  we  found 
Mr.  Cowardin' s  conversation  both  interesting  and 
instructive.  He  thus  brought  us  in  touch  with 
the  teeming  world  beyond  our  sober  horizon,  the 
great  world  that  we  knew  of  mainly  by  report. 
He  told  us  of  queer  peoples  and  of  strange  inci- 
dents by  land  and  sea,  and  managed  in  this  way  to 
broaden  our  views  and  to  give  a  wider  range  to 


THE  LAD'S  BIDE. 


269 


our  sympathies.  He  had  so  much  to  talk  about 
that  he  rarely  had  occasion  to  refer  to  himself, 
and  this  was  a  refreshing  novelty  in  a  provincial 
village  where  people  have  little  else  to  talk  of. 

Mrs.  Beshears  had  a  fancy  of  her  own  that  she 
had  seen  Mr.  Cowardin  somewhere  before,  but 
when,  for  my  own  amusement,  I  asked  her  to  trace 
her  impression  to  its  source,  it  was  found  to  rest 
on  the  belief  that  the  expression  of  his  face  re- 
minded her  of  some  one  she  had  known,  but,  for 
the  life  of  her,  she  couldn't  say  who.  He  "favored 
somebody,"  but  who  he  favored,  Mrs.  Beshears 
did  n't  know.  At  any  rate  she  liked  him,  for  no 
matter  how  many  questions  she  might  ask  (and 
her  inquisitiveness  seemed  to  be  without  bounds 
or  limit)  he  was  always  ready  to  answer  them  — 
nay,  more,  his  good  nature  and  his  sense  of  humor 
were  so  fused  that  he  seemed  to  invite  her  curiosity 
that  he  might  not  only  please  her,  but  also  enjoy 
her  blunt  comments  and  observations.  Naturally, 
therefore,  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Beshears  warmed 
toward  this  man  of  the  world  who  treated  her  with 
such  patient  deference.  I  think  all  our  hearts 
warmed  toward  him,  for  he  had  that  indefinable 
charm  of  manner  that  attracts  the  confidence  of 
men  and  women  alike.  He  had  the  repose  that 
strength  imparts,  and  the  gentleness  that  belongs 
to  good  breeding. 

As  for  the  lad,  —  the  boy  he  called  Cap,  —  he 
was  even  more  charming  in  his  ways  than  the 
guardian  Providence  had  sent  him.    He  had  the 


270 


SISTER  JANE. 


advantage  of  youth  — and  it  is  a  tremendous  ad- 
vantage, say  what  we  will.  Each  day  that  passed 
over  my  head  (as  the  saying  is)  made  me  more 
keenly  alive  to  that  fact,  and  more  sensitive  to  it, 
too.  The  child  had  this  great  advantage,  and  he 
seemed  instinctively  to  know  how  to  employ  it. 
He  had  never  associated  to  any  extent  with  other 
children,  and  this  fact  gave  him  sober  and 
thoughtful  manners.  He  had  been  so  long  thrown 
upon  his  own  resources,  so  far  as  amusement  was 
concerned,  that  he  had  what  the  women-folk  called 
"old-fashioned  ways."  And  these  gave  an  addi- 
tional charm  to  his  youth,  for  they  were  based  on 
a  certain  manliness  of  character  that  was  clearly 
above  all  the  small  and  petty  tricks  of  mischievous- 
ness  that  are  common  to  boys.  He  was  strong, 
healthy,  and  as  full  of  animal  spirits  as  a  colt  — 
and  yet  shy,  reserved,  gentle,  and  polite. 

From  the  very  first  he  took  a  great  fancy  to 
Mary,  and  she  to  him,. and  when  she  used  to  ask 
for  her  little  sweetheart  (as  she  called  him)  I 
always  felt  with  a  pang  how  much  happiness 
youth  could  have  if  it  only  knew  how  to  seize  and 
appropriate  it.  The  lad  was  fond  of  me,  too,  and 
seemed  to  enjoy  nothing  better  than  to  sit  in  my 
room,  or  on  the  little  porch  outside,  and  read  such 
books  as  I  was  willing  to  put  in  his  hand.  He 
had  many  of  the  girlish  ways  and  cute  methods 
that  innocence  stamps  its  seal  on. 

It  was  a  great  sensation  in  the  village  when  Mr. 
Cowardin  bought  the  lad  a  pony  out  of  a  drove  of 


THE  LAD'S  RIDE. 


271 


horses,  —  a  pony  that  even  the  traders  advised  him 
not  to  buy  if  he  was  buying  it  for  a  boy.  But 
he  bought  it,  nevertheless,  and,  when  cornered 
and  caught,  it  seemed  to  be  impatient  even  of 
the  halter.  A  negro  hostler,  after  some  trouble, 
led  the  creature  around  to  the  front  of  the  building 
in  which  Mr.  Cowardin  had  his  lodgings.  From 
among  his  traps  (as  he  called  them)  he  fished 
a  bridle  with  a  long  heavy  dragoon  bit,  and  a 
saddle  that  was  in  some  respects  unlike  any  I  had 
ever  seen,  being  entirely  barren  of  skirts.  It  was, 
in  fact,  nothing  but  a  saddle-tree.  The  stirrups 
were  of  wood,  and  the  straps  in  which  they  hung  • 
were  wide  enough  to  protect  the  legs  of  the  rider. 
After  a  struggle,  the  pony  was  bridled  and  sad- 
dled; but  he  was  a  vicious  -  appearing  creature. 
He  had  a  bald  face,  and  his  ears  were  continually 
moving  in  opposite  directions.  My  heart  jumped 
in  my  throat  when  I  found  that  our  lad  was  to 
ride  the  horse,  and  somehow  I  felt  cooled  toward 
Mr.  Cowardin.  It  was  a  feeling  that  I  fully  re- 
covered from  only  after  a  long  interval,  though  I 
could  but  see  that  the  boy  was  eager  for  the  ride. 

"Shall  I  try  him  first,  Cap?"  Mr.  Cowardin 
cried  out. 

"  No,  Dan  ;  you  're  too  heavy." 

With  that  the  lad  went  forward,  stroked  the 
pony  on  the  nose,  with  no  perceptible  soothing 
effect,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  and  then  stood  by  the 
stirrup.  By  the  side  of  the  horse  —  they  called 
the  creature  a  pony  because  he  was  a  trifle  under 


272 


SISTER  JANE 


size  —  the  lad  looked  small  and  frail  indeed.  He 
placed  his  foot  in  the  stirrup.  As  he  did  so  the 
horse  swerved  wildly  away  from  him,  but  the  lad 
was  already  in  the  saddle.  The  creature  tried  to 
rear,  but  was  held  by  Mr.  Cowardin ;  it  whirled 
and  almost  sat  upon  its  haunches,  and  then  out  of 
the  dust  and  confusion  I  heard  the  clear  voice  of 
our  lad  cry  out :  — 

"All  right,  Dan  !    Give  him  his  head." 

But  the  horse  was  no  freer  when  Mr.  Cowardin 
removed  his  hands  from  the  bridle  than  he  was 
before.  The  dragoon  bit  acted  as  a  powerful 
lever,  even  in  the  comparatively  weak  hands  of 
the  lad,  so  that,  although  a  terrible  struggle 
ensued  between  the  horse  and  rider,  —  a  struggle 
that  held  my  alarm  up  to  the  highest  possible 
pitch  as  long  as  it  lasted,  —  an  expert  might  have 
seen  what  the  end  would  be.  But  I  was  no  expert 
in  such  matters,  nor  desired  to  be.  I  could  only 
remember  that  the  boy  was  a  mere  child  and  that 
the  horse  was  strong  and  vicious.  The  creature 
made  a  series  of  terrific  leaps  and  bounds,  but 
somehow  the  lad  seemed  to  be  prepared  for  each 
successive  shock.  Once  the  horse  fell,  but  the  lad 
was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  and  in  the  saddle 
again  when  the  animal  rose.  Mr.  Cowardin  kept 
as  close  to  the  horse  and  rider  as  possible,  and 
when  the  horse  rose  from  his  fall,  passed  a  keen 
rawhide  to  the  lad,  remarking,  — 

"  Now  give  him  his  medicine,  Cap.  Make  him 
remember  you." 


THE  LAD'S  RIDE. 


273 


The  rawhide  descended  with  a  swishing  sound, 
not  once,  but  many  times,  and  I  could  hear  its 
swish  as  far  as  I  could  see  the  horse  and  rider, 
for  they  went  careering  up  the  village  street  like 
mad.  In  a  little  while  —  perhaps  a  half  an  hour 
—  they  came  back.  The  lad's  face  was  flushed 
with  the  exercise,  and  the  horse  was  going  at  an 
easy  canter. 

"  Why,  Dan,  he 's  as  gentle  as  a  dog.  He  goes 
as  easy  as  a  canoe." 

There  was  considerable  applause  from  the  spec- 
tators who  had  been  attracted  by  the  episode,  but 
I  confess  I  did  not  share  in  it.  I  only  waited  to 
make  sure  that  the  child  was  not  hurt,  and  then  I 
turned  away  from  the  scene  with  more  disgust 
than  I  would  have  cared  to  confess  at  the  time. 
Mr.  Cowardin  must  have  discovered  it  from  the 
expression  of  my  face,  for,  after  telling  the  lad  to 
ride  the  horse  slowly  about  until  he  had  cooled 
off,  he  joined  me  as  I  walked  homeward. 

"  You  don't  admire  fine  horsemanship,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Well,  I  confess  I  don't  relish  an  exhibition 
where  a  child  is  pitted  against  a  wild  beast,"  I  re- 
plied. 

"  But  you  see  what  has  happened,"  he  said. 

"  Yes  ;  I  thank  Heaven  the  lad  is  unhurt,"  I 
answered.  "  There  were  a  thousand  chances 
against  him  where  there  was  one  in  his  favor. 
Providence  is  kind  even  to  those  who  tempt  it." 

"  Chance  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Cowardin,  laying  his 


274 


SISTER  JANE. 


broad  hand  on  my  shoulder  in  a  friendly  way. 
"  My  dear  sir,  do  you  imagine  that  I  would  trust 
Cap  where  there  is  even  one  chance  against  him  ? 
Think  half  a  second !  For  six,  yes,  nearly  seven 
years,  until  lately,  that  boy  has  never  been  out  of 
reach  of  my  hand.  Would  I  be  likely  to  trust  him 
where  there  is  danger  and  not  share  it  with  him  ?  " 

"  But  you  must  admit  there  was  danger  of  an 
accident,"  I  said. 

"  Beyond  all  question.  But  if  you  will  tell  me 
where  the  lad  will  be  safe  from  all  accident  I  will 
gladly  carry  him  there." 

He  spoke  seriously,  and  I  saw  he  had  the  better 
of  the  argument.  But  the  human  mind  teems  with 
its  whims  and  prejudices,  and  somehow  it  was  long 
before  I  could  think  of  Mr.  Cowardin  without  a 
slight  feeling  of  revulsion.  It  would  have  been 
impossible  to  convince  me  then  and  there  that  he 
was  not  a  cruel  man  at  bottom.  I  may  as  well  say 
here  that  I  did  him  rank  injustice  in  this,  as  well 
as  in  another  matter  to  be  spoken  of  later.  But 
the  spectacle  of  that  child  mounted  on  the  snort- 
ing and  plunging  horse  gave  a  shock  to  my  mind 
that  it  was  long  in  recovering  from. 

"  Cap  is  as  much  at  home  on  a  horse,"  Mr.  Cow- 
ardin went  on  to  say,  "  as  you  are  in  your  rocking- 
chair.  When  he  had  been  with  me  a  year  he  was 
a  fairly  good  rider,  and  he 's  been  riding  ever  since. 
He  learned  to  ride  unruly  horses  as  everything 
else  is  learned  —  by  degrees.  For  months  those 
he  mounted  were  held  by  a  lariat.    In  course  of 


THE  LAD'S  RIDE. 


275 


time,  he  could  ride  them  without  assistance  as  well 
as  anybody,  and  a  great  deal  better  than  many 
grown  men  who  had  been  practicing  for  years.  I 
have  seen  him  mount  horses  an  hour  after  they 
had  been  caught  in  the  wilderness.  And  if  he 
could  manage  them  why  should  I  be  afraid  to  trust 
him  with  a  horse  that  has  been  broken  to  the 
saddle?" 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  By  the  saddle  marks  on  his  back,"  replied  Mr. 
Cowardin.  "  Whenever  the  saddle  chafes  and 
scalds  a  horse's  back  the  hair  will  grow  out  white 
and  remain  white." 

Inside  the  house,  we  found  sister  Jane  boiling 
over  with  indignation.  She  had  witnessed  a  part 
of  the  spectacle,  and  she  was  still  nervous. 

"  Well,  good  Lord  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  if  he 's  dead 
or  onj'inted  don't  fetch  him  in  here.  When  there 
ain't  no  sort  of  excuse  for  a  funeral  I  don't  want 
none  in  my  house." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked,  well  knowing 
that  I  would  have  to  stand  the  brunt  of  the  storm. 

"  William  Wornum,  don't  you  dare  to  stand  up 
there  like  a  wax  figger  and  ask  me  what  I  mean," 
she  exclaimed.  "  You  know  mighty  well  what  I 
mean  !  And  there  you  stood  with  your  mouth 
wide  open,  a-grinning  like  a  simpleton,  your  hands 
in  your  pockets  a- watching  that  hoss  a-trying  to 
kill  that  child  —  that  baby,  as  you  may  say !  I 
declare,  William  Wornum !  if  it  had  n't  'a'  been 
for  the  scandal  of  it,  I 'd  'a'  picked  up  a  stick  and 


276 


SISTER  JANE. 


come  out  there  and  give  you  a  frailing.  An'  if 
I 'd  'a'  come,"  she  went  on  significantly,  "  you 
would  n't  'a'  been  the  only  one  I 'd  'a'  frailed, 
neither.  What  did  you  do  with  the  child  after 
you  picked  him  up?  Don't  be  a-standing  there 
grinning  at  me,  William  Wornum  !  I  ain't  no 
baby  on  no  hoss.  Where  did  you  take  the  child  ? 
I  '11  go  and  look  at  him  and  see  that  he 's  fixed 
straight  on  his  cooling-board,  but  he  shan't  be 
brought  here." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  sister  Jane?"  I 
asked  again.  "  Mr.  Cowardin  here  does  n't  under- 
stand you  any  more  than  I  do." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean,  William 
Wornum,"  she  said,  turning  upon  me.  "  If  I 'd 
'a'  been  in  the  place  of  two  men,  one  as  big  as  a 
mule  (and  not  much  better)  and  the  other  about 
the  size  of  a  stunted  steer  (and  with  no  more 
sense),  I 'd  'a'  cut  off  my  right  hand  before  I 'd  'a' 
let  that  innocent  child  git  on  that  hoss.  Woman 
as  I  am  I 'd  'a'  cut  off  my  right  hand  before  I 'd 
'a'  risked  that  child's  life.  I  say  it  here  and  I  '11 
say  it  anywhere." 

Mr.  Cowardin  laughed  good-hum  or  edly  and 
would  have  said  something,  but  just  at  that  mo- 
ment the  lad  came  skipping  along  the  hallway. 

"Oh,  Dan,"  he  cried,  "I  told  the  hostler  to 
walk  the  pony  and  then  rub  him  down.  I  hap- 
pened to  think  that  I  saw  Miss  Jane  standing  in 
the  porch  out  there  when  the  pony  fell,  and  she 
looked  so  scared  that  I  thought  I 'd  run  home  and 


\ 


THE  LAD'S  RIDE. 


277 


tell  her  how  nice  it  is  to  ride  a  pony  that  is  n't  used 
to  riding." 

He  ran  to  sister  Jane,  and  caught  hold  of  her 
hand. 

"  Why,  honey,  you  're  all  in  a  muck  of  a  sweat." 
She  got  a  towel  and  wiped  the  lad's  face,  and 
brushed  his  hair  hack  behind  his  ears.  44  Where 
are  you  hurt,  honey?"  she  asked  with  motherly 
solicitude. 

"  Hurt !  "  the  lad  exclaimed.  "  Why,  I  have  n't 
a  scratch  on  me." 

44  Well,  it 's  the  wonder  of  the  world,  and  you 'd 
better  thank  the  Lord  that  the  day  of  meracles 
ain't  gone  by.  The  way  that  hoss  flung  around 
wi'  you  was  enough  to  jolt  your  soul-case  loose.  If 
you  're  alive  and  well  you  don't  owe  them  two  any 
thanks  for  it."  She  nodded  her  head  toward  Mr. 
Cowardin  and  myself. 

"  Pshaw !  if  all  horses  were  as  easy  to  ride  as 
that  one  was  I 'd  like  to  have  a  new  one  every  two 
hours,"  said  the  lad. 

Whereupon,  he  proceeded  to  inform  sister  Jane 
how  he  had  learned  to  ride  and  how  much  he  en- 
joyed it ;  and  he  did  it  with  more  success  than 
either  Mr.  Cowardin  or  myself  could  have  hoped 
to  achieve. 

"  Well,  all  I  've  got  to  say,"  remarked  sister 
Jane,  44  is  that  if  you  two  ain't  got  nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  put  that  child  where  he 's  liable  to 
have  every  bone  in  his  body  knocked  out  of  j'int, 
I  want  you  to  take  your  monkey  show  somewhere 


278 


SISTER  JANE. 


where  I  can't  see  it.  I 'm  that  weak  I  can  hardly 
lift  my  hand  to  my  head,  and  I  don't  know  when 
I  '11  git  over  it." 

"  Well,  I 'm  very  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin. 

"  Sorry !  "  cried  sister  Jane.  "  What  good  does 
that  do,  I 'd  like  to  know  ?  The  man  that  went 
out  one  night  and  shot  his  grandmother  in  the 
corn-patch,  thinking  she  was  a  bear,  was  sorry,  but 
that  did  n't  help  matters.  To  be  sorry  don't  mend 
no  broken  bones,  neither  does  it  call  the  dead  back 
to  life.  If  that  hoss  had  broke  the  child's  neck, 
we 'd  'a'  all  been  sorry,  but  what  good  would  it  'a' 
done?" 

There  was  no  reply  to  such  an  argument  as  this, 
and  Mr.  Cowardin  attempted  none.  The  result 
was  that  sister  Jane  was  soon  in  a  good  humor, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  few  days  she  talked  of  the 
affair  in  a  manner  that  showed  she  was  proud  of 
the  lad's  accomplishments  as  a  rider. 

Now,  as  I  have  said,  I  shared  in  a  measure 
sister  Jane's  feeling  of  indignation  at  the  eques- 
trian performance,  but,  in  my  case,  the  feeling 
took  the  shape  of  disgust.  I  hoped  that  Mary 
Bullard  had  not  been  a  witness  of  the  scene,  for 
I  felt  sure  that  her  sensitive  nature  would  be 
shocked  by  it.  But,  to  my  amazement,  she  came 
running  through  the  garden  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  telling  the  lad  how  bold  he  was,  and  how 
beautifully  he  sat  the  horse.  Her  enthusiasm 
showed  in  her  face,  too,  for  her  eyes  sparkled 
with  pleasure,  and  she  was  lovelier  than  ever. 


THE  LAD'S  RIDE. 


279 


And  presently  —  which  was  more  wonderful 
still  —  Mary's  mother  came  gliding  along  the  gar- 
den walk  to  congratulate  the  child.  She  took  his 
face  between  her  hands  and  kissed  him  on  his 
forehead.  She  was  even  more  enthusiastic  than 
Mary. 

"  I  must  thank  your  little  boy  for  reminding  me 
of  my  home,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Cowardin.  "I 
have  n't  seen  such  a  thing  —  oh,  it  has  been  years. 
Why,  when  the  child  began  to  use  the  whip  and 
the  horse  went  plunging  by,  everything  faded  be- 
fore my  eyes  and  I  was  at  home  again.  I  never 
thought  anybody  but  a  Brandon  could  manage  a 
horse  like  that." 

"  A  Brandon  !  "  The  exclamation  came  from 
Mr.  Cowardin.  The  Colonel's  wife  understood  it 
to  be  put  as  an  interrogation. 

"  My  father's  family  name,"  she  said,  holding  her 
head  a  trifle  higher,  I  imagined.  "  I  never  saw 
any  one  but  a  Brandon  ride  as  this  child  did  to- 
day. He  reminded  me  of  my  brother  Fred.  I 
was  a  tot  of  a  girl,  but  I  can  remember  how  my 
brother  rode  when  he  mounted  an  unruly  horse. 
My  father  kept  a  stable  of  racers,"  she  explained. 
"  Oh,  and  it  carried  me  back  to  old  times  when  I 
saw  this  child  to-day !  "  she  opened  and  closed  her 
delicate  white  hands  nervously. 

Mr.  Cowardin  made  some  deferential  response 
that  seemed  to  please  Mary  and  her  mother,  for 
they  both  laughed,  and  Mary  blushed.  I  have 
forgotten  what  the  remark  was  —  some  pleasant 


280 


SISTER  JANE. 


1 


formality,  —  for  at  that  moment  I  seemed  to  see 
eveiything  in  a  new  light.  It  came  over  me  sud- 
denly (and  the  thought  announced  itself  to  my 
mind  with  a  sharp  pang)  that,  possibly,  Mr.  Cow- 
ardin  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  Mary.  My 
ears  buzzed  and  the  room  seemed  to  be  reeling 
around  me,  and  I  was  compelled  to  catch  hold  of 
the  back  of  the  chair  behind  which  I  was  standing 
to  reassure  myself  that  the  people  and  things 
around  me  were  substantial. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  discover  what  put  such 
an  idea  in  my  head.  It  was  probably  the  outcome 
of  many  incidents,  all  of  which  became  more  sug- 
gestive than  ever  when  illuminated  by  the  possibil- 
ity I  have  mentioned.  I  remembered  a  hundred 
things  that  had  seemed  to  be  but  trifles  until  this 
possibility  shed  a  new  light  upon  them.  I  remem- 
bered how  eagerly  Mary  had  listened  to  the  ac- 
counts which  Mr.  Cowardin  gave  of  his  adventures 
—  with  what  rapt  attention  she  had  followed  not 
only  his  words,  but  his  every  gesture.  And  now,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  her  enthusiasm  over  the  horse- 
manship of  the  lad  was  intended  as  a  tribute  to 
Mr.  Cowardin. 

And  why  not  ?  Here  was  a  man  who  seemed  to 
possess  every  quality  necessary  to  make  a  fond  wo- 
man happy.  If  he  was  older  than  I,  which  seemed 
to  be  probable,  he  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life. 
His  years  sat  upon  him  lightly.  He  was  evidently 
a  man  of  affairs.  I  knew  he  was  rich,  and  while 
he  was  not  an  Apollo,  he  was  not  unhandsome. 


THE  LAD'S  RIDE. 


281 


He  was  a  man  of  character  and  education  —  just 
such  a  man,  in  short,  as  would  be  likely  to  attract 
a  woman  who  admired  strength  allied  with  gentle- 
ness. 

And  then,  somehow,  I  felt  myself  relegated  to 
the  rear  —  carried  to  the  infirmary  (as  it  were), 
where  I  might  speculate  on  the  pleasures  of  life, 
but  could  participate  in  them  no  more.  I  could 
admire  Mr.  Cowardin,  I  thought,  but  I  felt  that 
my  disgust  over  the  risk  he  had  caused  the  lad  to 
run  could  not  easily  be  dissipated.  So  thinking 
I  made  some  excuse  and  went  out  into  the  garden, 
where  presently  I  stood  gazing  at  space  until  I  fell 
into  a  profound  reverie  that  was  not  all  unpleasant, 
for  it  is  so  ordained  that  a  mind  not  given  entirely 
over  to  the  small  affairs  of  life  has  its  own  special 
resources  that  it  can  draw  upon  at  pleasure. 

From  this  reverie  I  woke  to  the  fact  that  Mary 
was  near. 

"I  've  heard  of  such  things,  but  I  never  saw  a 
man  in  the  clouds  before,"  she  said  laughingly. 

"  Where  ?  "  I  asked,  looking  toward  the  zenith. 
My  thoughts  were  so  far  afield  that  I  took  her 
words  literally  —  a  fact  that  caused  me  to  blush  and 
wonder  at  my  own  stupidity.  This  made  Mary 
laugh  all  the  more.    Then  she  grew  serious. 

"  You  were  disturbed  when  you  came  out  a  while 
ago,"  she  remarked.    "  What  was  the  matter?  " 

"Nothing  —  nothing  at  all,"  I  replied  with 
increasing  embarrassment. 

"  Oh,   please   don't  tell  fibs,"   she  insisted. 


282 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  Something  was  troubling  you.  Won't  you  tell 
me  what  it  was?  " 

"  Old  people  should  never  bother  young  folks 
with  their  troubles,"  I  replied.  ct  I  am  older  than 
Mr.  Cowardin." 

"  What  a  pity  you  are  so  old,"  she  said,  her 
face  reddening.  "You  ought  to  get  a  pair  of 
crutches.  What  has  Mr.  Cowardin  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing.    He  appears  to  be  a  young  man." 

She  smoothed  a  knot  of  ribbon,  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment as  if  about  to  speak,  then  sighed  and  turned 
away. 


XX. 


MEMOKIES  OF  CLARENCE  BULLARD. 

'Twas  impossible  to  say  whether  Mary  was 
angry  or  no.  'T  was  impossible  for  me  to  fathom 
her  moods,  but  that  my  self-humiliation  might  be 
made  more  complete,  I  chose  to  torment  myself 
with  the  belief  that  some  thought  of  Mr.  Cowardin 
had  evoked  the  sigh.  I  did  now,  as  I  had  done 
many  a  time  before :  I  went  to  my  room,  locked 
the  doors,  seized  my  other  self  by  his  ears,  dragged 
him  to  light,  and  asked  him  by  what  right  of 
possession,  hope,  or  expectation  he  had  reason  to 
feel  anything  but  pleasure  when  Mary  Bullard 
gave  a  friendly  or  even  a  fond  smile  to  any  human 
being  who  seemed  to  be  worthy  of  it.  As  usual 
on  such  occasions,  the  miserable  Ego  tried  to  take 
refuge  in  all  sorts  of  lame  and  paltry  excuses,  but 
I  gave  him  a  lesson  that  he  would  long  remember, 
and  finally  tucked  him  under  my  waistcoat  out 
of  sight  again.  To  do  him  justice  it  should  be 
said  that  he  went  to  sleep  and  slept  comfortably 
for  some  time,  not  daring  to  intrude  on  me  with 
his  troubles. 

When  Mrs.  Beshears  came  as  usual  the  night 
following  the  lad's  display  of  horsemanship,  sister 


284 


SISTER  JANE. 


Jane  described  it  with  all  those  little  exagger- 
ations of  adjective  and  gesture  that  a  woman 
instinctively  employs.  Nor  was  she  sparing  in 
criticism  of  the  carelessness  that  prompted  Mr. 
Cowardin  and  myself  to  place  the  child  on  the 
vicious  horse,  though  she  knew  I  had  no  more  to  do 
with  it  than  a  person  who  had  never  heard  of  it. 

"  Well !  that  puts  me  more  in  mind  of  some 
of  the  deviltries  of  Clarence  Bullard  than  anything 
that 's  come  to  my  ears  in  many 's  the  long  day," 
remarked  Mrs.  Beshears. 

Mr.  Cowardin  turned  half  around  in  his  chair 
and  looked  hard  at  Mrs.  Beshears  !  "  Did  you 
know  Clarence  Bullard  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  I  did  n't  know  of  him  I  heard  about 
him,"  remarked  Mrs.  Beshears,  nodding  her  head 
in  a  self-satisfied  way.  "  Not  that  I  ever  blamed 
him  for  anything  I  know'd  or  heard.  No,  bless 
you !  His  daddy  named  him  a  name  out'n  a  book, 
an'  the  poor  child  couldn't  help  that.  He  was 
tetotally  ruined  before  his  eyes  was  open,  as  you 
may  say." 

Mr.  Cowardin  laughed  heartily,  almost  glee- 
fully. "  Did  Clarence  ever  do  any  serious  harm  ? 
Did  he  ever  rob  or  kill  anybody?  It  has  been 
many  a  day  since  I  've  heard  his  name  mentioned. 
I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  been  for- 
gotten by  everybody  in  the  land  of  the  living." 

"  No,  he  never  done  any  rank  harm  that  I  know 
of,"  said  Mrs.  Beshears.  "  He  was  jest  full  of 
devilment,  an*  he  used  to  go  ridin5  aroun'  from 


MEMORIES  OF  CLARENCE  BULLARD.  285 


post  to  pillar,  whoopin'  an'  yellin'.  Come  down  to 
the  pinch,  he  had  more  harm  done  to  him  than  he 
ever  done  to  anybody.  So  I  've  heard  an'  so  I 
believe.  If  you  want  to  know  all  about  it  jest 
ax  Cephas  Billiard.  Bless  your  heart !  he  knows. 
Did  you  ever  strike  up  with  Clarence  Bullard  in 
his  travels  ?  " 

Mr.  Cowardin  was  looking  hard  at  Mrs.  Be- 
shears  and  her  question  seemed  to  take  him  by 
surprise  —  so  much  so,  that  he  rose  from  his  chair, 
straightened  himself  to  his  fullest  height,  and  then 
sat  down  again. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  replied.  "  I  knew  Clarence 
Bullard  very  well.  I  was  with  him  in  California. 
In  fact,  we  went  there  together.  He  was  one  of 
my  partners." 

"  Did  he  get  rich,  too,  like  the  rest  of  you  ?  " 
Mrs.  Beshears  inquired. 

"  He  was  comfortably  well  off  when  I  bade  him 
good-by,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin. 

"  Well,  I 'm  glad  of  that  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart !  "  Mrs.  Beshears  exclaimed.  "  He  won't 
miss  what  9s  been  niched  from  him." 

"  I  never  heard  him  complain  of  anything  of 
that  kind,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin.  "  If  he  had  any 
such  trouble  he  kept  it  to  himself." 

"  I  believe  every  word  of  that,"  cried  sister 
Jane.  "  You  need  n't  mind  Sally.  She  says  a 
heap  more  than  she  means.  She  talks  about  how 
wild  Clarence  Bullard  was,  and  yet  I 've  heard  her 
sing  his  praises  to  the  skies." 


286 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


"  That 's  a  fact,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Beshears, 
with  a  smile.  "  I  say  what  t'  other  folks  said. 
Clarence  Bullard  was  as  handsome  a  young  man 
as  the  Lord  ever  made." 

"  Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,"  suggested 
Mr.  Cowardin. 

"  That 's  so,"  assented  sister  Jane  ;  "  but  I 
mind  how  Sally  and  me  went  to  camp-meetin'  once 
on  a  time.  She  was  married  and  I  was  done  past 
the  marryin'  age,  but  we  went  with  a  crowd,  and 
when  we  got  there,  we  was  like  two  fish  out  of  water. 
We  stood  around  with  our  mouths  open,  a-feeling 
like  two  fools  that  did  n't  know  where  to  go  nor 
what  to  do.  Clarence  Bullard  was  there,  dressed 
up  fit  to  kill,  and  he  had  a  crowd  of  giggling  gals 
around  him.  When  his  eye  fell  on  us,  he  made 
his  excuses  to  the  gals,  and  come  a-running  with 
his  hat  off.  He  wa'n't  nothing  in  the  world  but  a 
boy  in  looks,  but  he  know'd  what  to  say,  and 
't  wa'n't  a  minnit  before  we  was  a-feeling  at  home 
and  a-having  jest  as  much  fun  as  the  next  one,  and 
maybe  more.  He  brought  us  water,  and  he  took 
us  to  dinner.  Make  me  believe  Clarence  Bullard 
was  mean  !  Why,  all  the  lawyers  in  Philadelphy 
could  n't  do  it." 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  very  small  thing  to  do,"  said 
Mr.  Cowardin. 

"  You  may  think  it 's  a  little  thing  for  a  young 
man  to  make  two  lone  wimmen  feel  like  they 
ain't  lost,  but  I  don't,"  remarked  sister  Jane  with 
kindling  indignation. 


MEMORIES  OF  CLARENCE  BULLARD.  287 

"  No,  ner  I,"  cried  Mrs.  Beshears. 

Mr.  Cowardin  rose  from  his  chair.  "  Weil,  if 
Clarence  Bullard  knew  that  he  was  so  kindly  re- 
membered for  one  small  act  of  politeness  he  would 
be  very  grateful  to  you,"  he  said,  and  turned  to  go 
from  the  room. 

"  Wait !  "  cried  Mrs.  Beshears  ;  "  come  here 
and  le'  me  look  at  you  right  close."  With  that 
she  limped  across  the  room,  took  Mr.  Cowardin  by 
the  arm,  and  led  him  closer  to  the  candle-stand, 
where  she  scrutinized  his  face  closely,  much  to  his 
embarrassment,  as  it  seemed.  "  I  jest  wanted  to 
see  if  my  old  eyes  fooled  me,"  she  explained. 
"  Now  you  can  go."  He  went  out  laughing, 
followed  by  the  lad. 

"  That 's  so  about  Clarence  Bullard,"  Mrs.  Be- 
shears remarked,  after  she  and  sister  Jane  had 
exchanged  glances.  "  I 've  had  so  many  ups  and 
downs  sence  then  that  I  had  clean  forgot  it.  The 
Lord  knows,  old  folks  like  me  hear  so  much  an' 
know  so  little  that  it 's  mighty  nigh  onpossible  to 
keep  from  doin'  harm  wi'  the  tongue." 

" 1 've  had  ups  an'  downs  myself  "  — 

"  But  not  like  me,  Jane  —  not  like  me.  Oh,  no, 
Jane!  not  anyways  like  me.  I  declare,  I'm  so 
nigh  fagged  out  that  I 'm  right  on  the  p'int  of 
givin'  up.    That 's  the  truth  if  ever  I  spoke  it." 

"  I 've  had  my  ups  an'  downs,"  sister  Jane 
Went  on,  "but  that  ain't  hindered  me  from  recol- 
lecting how  Clarence  Bullard  done  that  day  at  the 
camp-meetin'." 


288 


SISTER  JANE. 


"Well,  you  know,  Jane,"  explained  Mrs.  Be- 
shears,  "  I  was  married,  an'  I  did  n't  set  so  much 
store  by  what  Clarence  Bullard  done  as  you  did. 
But  he  treated  us  mighty  nice,  an'  I 'm  glad  — 
truly  glad  —  that  he 's  got  money  of  his  own  an' 
ain't  beholding  to  none  of  his  kinnery." 

The  lad  came  back  in  a  little  while,  told  us  all 
good-night  (placing  his  arms  around  sister  Jane's 
neck  in  a  way  that  pleased  her  mightily),  and  went 
to  bed.  Somehow  the  conversation  lagged.  Mrs. 
Beshears  was  not  as  lively  as  usual,  and  she  started 
home  earlier  than  was  her  habit. 

"I'm  not  feelin'  well,  Jane,"  she  said,  as  she 
bade  us  good-night.  "  I 'm  not  well  at  all.  I 'm 
right  on  the  p'int  of  givin'  out.  If  I  ain't  feelin' 
no  better  to-morrow  night  than  I  am  to-night  you 
need  n't  look  for  me.  My  room 's  better  'n  my 
company,  I  reckon,  an'  you  won't  miss  me  much ; 
but  I  declare  !  I  've  been  a-comin'  so  regular  that 
I  '11  have  to  git  some  of  the  niggers  to  watch  me 
in  the  forepart  of  the  night  for  fear  I  '11  git  up 
an'  try  to  come  in  my  sleep."  Mrs.  Beshears 
laughed  at  the  thought,  but  the  laugh  was  neither 
strong  nor  gay. 

"Do  as  I  do,"  remarked  sister  Jane,  almost 
sternly.  "Don't  give  up  to  your  sick  whims  and 
fancies." 

"  Lord !  I 've  been  a-holdin'  of  'em  at  arm's 
length  for  so  long  that  I 'm  a-gittin'  weak.  The 
feelin'  that  I 've  got  now  ain't  no  fancy.  I  wish 
it  was.    But  I 'm  a-gittin'  old  and  tired." 


MEMORIES  OF  CLARENCE  BULLARD.  289 

And  it  was  even  so.  Never  again  did  Mrs.  Be- 
sliears  come  limping  to  our  gate.  We  thought 
little  of  the  matter  the  next  night  when  she  failed 
to  come,  but  when  two  nights  passed  without  bring- 
ing her,  sister  Jane  began  to  grow  uneasy,  and 
the  next  day  she  sent  Mandy  Satterlee  to  see  what 
the  matter  could  be.  Mandy  could  hardly  have 
arrived  there  before  Mose,  the  negro  foreman  on 
Mrs.  Beshears's  place,  came  to  inform  us  that  his 
mistress  was  very  ill  indeed,  and  to  beg  that  Miss 
Jane  be  so  good  as  to  go  see  what  the  trouble  was. 

"  Has  a  doctor  been  called  in  ? "  sister  Jane 
asked. 

"  No 'm,  dey  ain't,"  answered  Mose,  scratching 
his  head.  "  Miss  Sally  so  sot  ag'in  doctors  an' 
doctor  truck  dat  I  skeered  fer  ter  fetch  one  dar, 
kaze  dey  ain't  no  tellin'  but  what  she 'd  bounce 
out'n  bed  an'  lam'  me  an'  de  doctor  too." 

Sister  Jane  was  truly  indignant,  and  no  wonder. 
"  Well,  the  Lord  'a'  mercy  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  do  you 
mean  to  stand  up  and  tell  me  that  you 've  been 
setting  at  home,  letting  your  mistress  die  with- 
out calling  in  a  doctor,  you  trifling,  good-for-no- 
thing rascal ?  " 

Moses  seemed  to  be  very  much  alarmed  at  sis- 
ter J ane's  display  of  anger.  He  moved  about  on 
his  feet  uneasily,  and  pulled  at  his  hat,  which  he 
held  in  his  hand,  in  a  way  that  showed  his  embar- 
rassment. 

"  Wellum,  you  know  how  Miss  Sally  is,  yo'se'f, 
ma'am.    She  ain't  make  much  complaints.  She 


290 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


des  lay  dar  an'  not  say  much,  an'  we-all  ain't  know 
liow  sick  she  is  twel  I  hear  her  runnin'  on  like  she 
out'n  her  head,  an'  den  I  come  atter  you  hard  ez 
I  kin,  kaze  I  know'd  you'd  tell  us  what  ter  do." 

"  No,"  said  sister  Jane,  "  you  did  n't  want  any 
doctor  there.  You  and  the  rest  of  the  niggers  out 
there  have  got  it  in  your  heads  that  if  Sally  Be- 
shears  pegs  out  you  '11  be  free.  But  you  '11  be  sold 
off'n  the  court-house  block  if  I  have  to  have  it 
done  myself.  Go  and  tell  Dr.  Biggers  to  hurry 
out  there  as  hard  as  he  can.  I  want  to  see  you 
move  now  !  "  Mose,  thoroughly  frightened,  went 
off  at  a  run. 

Shortly  afterwards,  Free  Betsey  came,  and  the 
word  she  brought  from  Mandy  Satterlee  was  that 
Mrs.  Beshears  was  very  low  indeed,  that  sister 
Jane  was  to  come  at  once,  and  that  Free  Betsey 
would  get  dinner  and  attend  to  the  baby  if  that 
arrangement  was  satisfactory.  It  was  the  best  that 
could  be  done,  and  when  sister  Jane  had  called  in 
one  of  her  lady  acquaintances  to  superintend  affairs 
for  her,  she  was  ready  to  go.  For  a  wonder  she 
asked  me  to  accompany  her,  and  I  was  more  than 
willing,  for  I  had  a  sincere  regard  for  Mrs.  Be- 
shears, albeit  her  sharp  tongue  had  fretted  me 
many  times. 

When  we  arrived,  the  doctor,  a  jovial  old  gen- 
tleman of  great  experience,  was  already  there.  He 
was  so  accustomed  to  such  scenes  that  he  smiled  as 
he  told  us  that  nothiDg  could  be  done.  An  attack 
of  influenza  had  caused  a  general  breaking-down 


MEMORIES  OF  CLARENCE  BULLARD.  291 

of  the  system.  That  was  all,  and  yet  it  was 
enough.  Dr.  Biggers  had  met  us  at  the  door  on 
his  way  out  to  his  buggy,  but  he  turned  again  and 
went  with  us  into  the  sick-room.  Through  force 
of  habit  he  again  felt  the  pulse  of  Mrs.  Beshears, 
and  this  seemed  to  fret  her,  for  she  jerked  her 
hand  away  with  a  muttered  exclamation  of  impa- 
tience. 

"  She  has  had  a  very  strong  constitution,"  re- 
marked the  doctor  suavely,  "  but  you  know,  Miss 
Jane,  the  strongest  constitution  will  break  down 
after  a  while."  His  smile  was  blandly  cute  as  he 
spoke.  "  I  have  left  something  to  be  given  from 
time  to  time.  The  young  woman  there  "  —  point- 
ing to  Mandy  —  "  knows  what  to  do.  She  was  an 
old  friend  of  yours,  I  believe,  Miss  Jane  ?  " 

"  She  is  yet,"  replied  sister  Jane  tartly. 

"  Of  course  —  of  course,"  remarked  the  doctor 
in  a  soothing  tone.  "  I  understand.  I  appreciate 
your  feelings,  Miss  Jane.    They  do  you  credit." 

He  pulled  on  his  gloves  as  he  spoke,  smiling  all 
the  while,  and  then  bade  us  good-day,  still  smiling. 
As  he  went  out,  he  slammed  the  door,  quite  by  ac- 
cident. The  noise  seemed  to  arouse  Mrs.  Beshears 
from  her  stupor,  and  she  began  to  talk. 

"  Howdy,  Jane  ?  —  You  well  ?  —  Weather  don't 
bother  me,  does  it  ?  I  jest  come  anyhow,  if  I  have 
to  paddle  through  mud  and  wade  through  water." 
There  was  a  pause,  for  Mrs.  Beshears's  breath  came 
short  and  quick.  "Where's  the  baby?"  She 
reached  forth  her  arm  and  felt  around  until  her 


292 


SISTER  JANE. 


hand  rested  on  a  pillow.  This  she  patted  gently. 
"  Don't  wake  the  child  up.  Keep  the  cover  on  it. 
Where's  Phyllis?  Tell  her  to  look  after  Polly 
and  Becky.  Give  'em  their  coffee  an'  put  plenty 
sugar  in  it.  —  Heigh-ho  !  I 'm  that  tired  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  There  ought  to  be  a  man  to 
look  after  this  place.    Oh,  Lord !  " 

I  chanced  to  look  toward  the  fireplace  where 
Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky  sat.  Miss  Polly 
reached  across  and  touched  Miss  Becky  on  the 
knee. 

"  You  hear  her,  Becky  ?  " 

"  I  hear  her,  Polly,"  replied  Miss  Becky,  shak- 
ing her  head  as  solemnly  as  her  palsied  condition 
would  permit. 

"  Arter  a  man  !  "  said  Miss  Polly  grimly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miss  Becky,  "  allers  arter  a  man. 
She  '11  git  none  of  our  money." 

"  Not  a  thrip  !  "  responded  Miss  Polly. 

"  They 've  been  a-gwine  on  that  a-way  ever  sence 
I  put  my  foot  in  the  house,"  said  Mandy  to  sister 
Jane  in  an  awed  tone. 

"  And  before,  too,"  remarked  sister  Jane.  "  Let 
'em  alone." 

"  I  must  git  up,"  said  Mrs.  Beshears.  "  Where 's 
my  shoes  ?  Somebody 's  kicked  'em  under  the  bed, 
I  reckon.  Git  'em  out !  I 've  laid  here  long 
enough.  I  must  go  and  see  Jane.  I 'm  obleege 
to  go.  Why,  if  I  was  to  miss  goin'  she 'd  think 
somethin'  terrible  had  happened." 

Miss  Polly  nudged  Miss  Becky  again.  "Jest 


MEMORIES  OF  CLARENCE  BULL  ARB.  293 

listen  at  her,"  said  Miss  Polly.  "  Wants  to  git 
out'n  bed  an'  go  gaddin'  up-town." 

"  I 'm  a-list'nin',''  replied  Miss  Becky. 

"  Wants  to  go  gaddin'  arter  a  man,"  remarked 
Miss  Polly. 

"  Allers  a-gaddin'  up-town,"  echoed  Miss  Becky. 
"  She  shan't  have  none  of  our  money." 

"  Not  a  thrip  !  "  Miss  Polly  declared. 

While  these  two  decrepit  old  women  were  nod- 
ding their  heads  together  like  two  muscovy  ducks, 
Mrs.  Beshears  was  growing  more  and  more  talka- 
tive. Her  mind  wandered  far  afield,  but  it  always 
came  back  to  thoughts  of  sister  Jane,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  she  was  less  restless,  when  she  was  talk- 
ing about  her  long-time  friend. 

Sister  Jane  tried  to  talk  to  her  and  to  soothe 
her,  for  she  had  a  deft  way  with  sick  people,  but 
Mrs.  Beshears  was  always  impatient  at  these  at- 
tempts to  call  her  back  to  consciousness. 

"  Don't  pester  me  !  "  she  railed  out.  "  Some- 
body 's  all  the  time  a-pesterin'  me  when  I 'm  goin' 
to  see  Jane,  or  when  I 'm  tryin'  to  have  a  confab 
with  her.  Oh,  go  'way !  Don't  pester  me.  You 
thought  I  wa'n't  comin',  did  n't  you,  Jane  ?  But 
here  I  am,  as  the  flea  said  to  the  sick  kitten. 
How 've  you  been  since  I  saw  you  ?  And  where 's 
that  great  Mr.  Somebody  I  saw  t'  other  night  ?  " 

Again  Miss  Polly  nudged  Miss  Becky. 

"  You  hear  that,  don't  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  Don't  I  ?  "  said  Miss  Becky.  "  Arter  a  man. 
She  shan't  have  none  of  our  money." 


294 


SISTER  JANE. 


"Not  a  thrip,"  Miss  Polly  assented.  "She 
could  n't  find  it  to  save  her  life." 

In  this  way,  Mrs.  Beshears  rambled  in  her  de- 
lirium, her  sisters  tracing  everything  she  said  to  a 
desire  to  gad  about  in  order  to  find  another  hus- 
band. She  sank  very  rapidly.  Her  remarkable 
energy  and  the  manifold  cares  she  bore  on  her 
shoulders  had  worn  out  her  nature,  and  now  she 
had  come  to  the  end  of  it.  When  her  thoughts 
flew  away  from  sister  Jane,  they  went  back  to  the 
days  of  her  youth,  and  in  this  way  it  pleased  Hea- 
ven to  lighten  her  last  moments  by  permitting  her 
to  live  over  again  in  the  brief  space  of  a  few  hours 
the  happiest  years  of  her  life. 

Sister  Jane  sat  by  the  bed,  and  held  one  of  her 
old  friend's  hands,  weeping  softly  all  the  while. 
At  the  last,  Mrs.  Beshears  opened  her  eyes,  half 
raised  herself  in  the  bed,  and  cried  out :  — 

"  Jane,  yonder 's  Sarah  Ann  !  Wait,  honey, 
an'  tell  me  the  news  !  " 

Her  head  sank  back  on  the  pillow,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment all  was  over.  Mrs.  Beshears  had  joined  her 
sister  Sarah  Ann,  who  had  died  fifty  years  before. 

By  the  terms  of  Mrs.  Beshears's  will,  Mandy 
Satterlee  was  to  take  charge  of  Miss  Polly  and 
Miss  Becky  and  administer  to  their  wants,  but, 
to  my  surprise,  Mandy  refused  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  them. 

"  Wiry,  I  would  n't  live  there  an'  listen  at  them 
two  poor  ol'  creeturs  a-talkin'  about  the'r  money 
an'  about  somebody  a-marryin'  —  I  would  n't  stay 


MEMORIES  OF  CLARENCE  BULL  ARB.  295 


there  an'  have  all  that  kind  of  talk  ding-dong'd 
into  my  head  eve'y  day,  not  fer  all  the  land  in  the 
country,  nor  fer  all  the  money  that  could  be  scraped 
together  betwixt  this  an'  Kingdom  Come." 

And  nothing  could  change  her.  Sister  Jane  tried 
to  convince  her  that  it  was  to  her  interest  to  go,  but 
Mandy  disposed  of  all  arguments  by  falling  into  a 
fit  of  weeping,  saying  that  if  she  wasn't  wanted 
where  she  was,  she  could  go  somewhere  else,  but 
never  would  she  go  where  "  them  poor  ol'  creeturs 
was,"  unless  somebody  tied  her  and  toted  her  there, 
and  even  then  she  would  n't  stay.  I  think  sister 
Jane  was  secretly  pleased  with  Mandy's  decision. 

Under  the  circumstances,  there  was  but  one 
thing  to  be  done.  The  Judge  of  the  Inferior 
Court  had  appointed  me  administrator  of  the  es- 
tate, and  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  send  Miss  Polly  and 
Miss  Becky  to  the  asylum  at  Milledgeville,  where, 
as  pay  boarders,  they  would  receive  the  best  of 
care  and  attention.  This,  in  fact,  was  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  Court,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  carrying  it 
out.  I  imagined  that  the  most  difficult  part  of  my 
duty  would  be  to  get  the  two  old  women  to  consent 
to  make  the  journey.  But  the  way  was  smoothed 
by  Free  Betsey,  who,  under  pretense  of  telling  their 
fortunes,  informed  them  that  they  would  shortly 
go  on  a  journey.  For  this,  strange  to  say,  they 
were  eager,  and  gladly  allowed  Free  Betsey  to 
get  out  their  faded  finery,  shabby  and  long  out  of 
date,  and  brush  it  up. 

So  completely  had  the  idea  of  the  journey  been 


296 


SISTER  JANE. 


impressed  on  their  minds  by  Free  Betsey  that  they 
were  for  getting  ready  every  time  they  heard  the 
wheels  of  a  buggy  or  carriage  rolling  by. 

Free  Betsey  prepared  them  for  the  day,  and  they 
were  ready  and  waiting  when  Mr.  Cowardin  and 
myself  went  for  them  in  a  carriage  hired  for  the 
occasion.  It  was  thought  best  that  I  should  go 
with  them,  and  Mr.  Cowardin  had  volunteered  to 
go  with  me,  and  proposed  to  make  himself  useful 
by  driving  the  carriage.  I  gladly  accepted  his 
offer,  and  found  that  the  journey,  short  as  it  was, 
would  have  been  lonely  indeed  but  for  his  genial 
and  interesting  conversation.  But  sometimes  a 
silence  fell  between  us,  and  then  it  was  pitiful  in 
the  extreme  to  hear  the  worse  than  childish  talk  of 
Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky. 

"  If  Sally  had  n't  been  so  sot  on  gaddin'  about 
she  might  'a'  come  wi'  us,"  said  Miss  Becky. 

"  We  're  gittin'  'long  mighty  well  wi'out  her,  I 
think,"  Miss  Polly  declared. 

"  Lawsy,  yes !  "  Miss  Becky  assented,  and  then 
began  to  chuckle.  "  She  '11  come  back  an'  find  us 
gone,  an'  then  what  '11  she  do  ?  Won't  she  be  took 
back  when  they  tell  her  we 've  gone  a-travelin'  ? 
1  would  n't  be  as  jealous  as  Sally  is,  not  for  the 
world.    Oh,  she  '11  be  sorry  she  went  a-gaddin' !  " 

"  She  won't  do  a  thing  when  she  finds  out 
we're  outer  sight  an'  hearin'  but  go  a-huntin' 
aroun'  for  our  money,"  Miss  Becky  declared. 

"  She  '11  dig  under  the  house,  an'  under  the 
trees,  an'  maybe  under  the  bushes  in  the  yard." 


MEMORIES  OF  CLARENCE  BULLARD.  297 


"  Bat  she  won't  git  it.  It 's  hid  wher'  she  won't 
never  look,"  said  Miss  Polly. 

"  Maybe  we  ought  to  a-brung  it  wi'  us,"  sug- 
gested Miss  Becky,  taking  alarm  at  her  own  de- 
mented fancies. 

"Don't  you  fret,  Becky,"  said  Miss  Polly. 
"  It 's  hid  wher'  she  '11  never  git  it." 

Poor  Mrs.  Beshears !  She  had  devoted  herself  to 
her  sisters,  and  now  they  did  n't  even  know  she  was 
dead.  They  had  been  told  so,  but  they  imagined 
it  was  part  of  a  scheme  to  deceive  them. 

"  She  thought  she  was  mighty  cunnin',"  re- 
marked Miss  Becky.  "  She  told  the  folks  that 
come  to  see  us  that  she  was  dead,  an'  they  did  n't 
have  no  better  sense  than  to  b'lieve  her.  She 
did  n't  fool  us,  did  she  ?  " 

"  Fool  who  ?  "  cried  Miss  Polly,  with  a  fine  as- 
sumption of  scorn.  "  I  went  an'  looked  at  her,  an' 
thar  she  was,  all  laid  out.  I  looked  at  her  right 
close,  an'  she  wa'n't  no  more  dead  than  I  am.  If 
you 'd  'a'  said  man  or  money  to  her,  she 'd  'a'  opened 
her  eyes  an'  'a'  jumped  up.  She  thought  she  was 
mighty  sharp,  but  she  did  n't  fool  me !  " 

I  was  truly  glad  when  the  journey  was  over,  and 
the  two  demented  old  women  were  safely  placed 
in  the  state  asylum.  We  gave  the  horses  and 
ourselves  a  good  night's  rest,  and  started  back 
home,  which  we  reached  in  due  time,  though  an 
incident  occurred  that  seemed  to  puzzle  and  worry 
Mr.  Cowardin. 


XXI. 


TWO  STRANGERS  ARRIVE. 

As  we  were  nearing  home,  being  not  above 
four  miles  from  the  village  (Mr.  Cowardin  driv- 
ing, and  I  sitting  on  the  seat  beside  him  for  com- 
pany), we  heard  the  rattle  of  wheels  behind  us. 
Turning,  I  saw  a  light  two-horse  top-buggy,  —  a 
vehicle  that  was  rare  enough  in  these  parts  to 
attract  attention,  —  drawn  by  a  pair  of  fine  bays. 
Two  men  were  seated  in  the  buggy.  One  was 
large  and  handsome,  having  the  color  of  health  in 
his  face,  while  the  other  was  smaller  and  had  a 
sallow  complexion.  The  large  man  wore  a  mus- 
tache and  a  tuft  of  beard  on  his  chin.  The  face 
of  the  other  had  not  known  the  touch  of  a  razor 
for  months,  perhaps  for  years.  It  was  covered 
with  a  dark  yellow  beard.  They  overtook  and  drove 
around  us  at  a  convenient  place  in  the  road,  and 
I  saw  a  bottle  between  them.  When  they  had 
passed  us  a  little  way,  the  large  man,  who  was 
driving,  pulled  his  horse  up,  turned  his  face  toward 
us,  and  asked  how  far  it  was  to  Hallyton.  I  in- 
formed him  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  The  smaller 
man  seemed  to  be  very  impatient. 

"  'T  ain't  fur,"  he  said.  "  Not  more  'n  four  mile. 
Did  n't  I  tell  you  so?" 


TWO  STRANGERS  ARRIVE. 


299 


I  saw  then  that  the  face  of  the  large  handsome 
man  was  flushed  not  with  the  color  of  health,  but 
with  liquor,  and  I  judged  from  the  tone  of  the 
other  that  he,  too,  had  been  free  with  the  bottle. 

The  buggy  went  forward  more  rapidly  than  our 
lumbering  old  carriage,  and  it  was  soon  lost  to 
view. 

"I'll  be  worried  until  I  go  to  sleep,"  said  Mr. 
Cowardin,  when  the  travelers  were  out  of  sight 
and  hearing.  "  I 've  seen  that  sandy-haired  man 
somewhere  before." 

44  Why,  so  have  I,"  was  my  reply.  "  He 's  some 
countryman  hereabouts  that  the  gentleman  is 
accommodating  with  a  ride." 

"  No,"  Mr.  Cowardin  insisted ;  "  I  have  seen  him 
somewhere  in  my  travels.  But  where?  Were 
you  ever  bothered  about  such  things  ?  They  give 
me  no  end  of  worry." 

44  Why,  not  at  all,"  I  remarked.  44  If  I  see 
people  once  and  can't  remember  their  names  when 
I  see  them  again,  it  is  well  and  good  with  me.  I 
go  on  about  my  business  and  think  of  them  no 
more.  Now,  I 'm  certain  I  have  seen  the  sandy- 
haired  man  somewhere,  but  when  and  where  I 
neither  know  nor  care." 

44  Well,  it  is  different  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Cowar- 
din. 44  If  that  man's  face  was  n't  impressed  on 
my  mind  I  should  never  remember  it.  I  '11  bother 
with  it  until  I  go  to  bed,  and  then  to-morrow,  when 
I  'in  not  thinking  about  it,  the  name,  place,  and  all 
the  circumstances  will  pop  into  my  head,  and  that 
will  be  the  end  of  the  matter." 


300 


SISTER  JANE. 


He  allowed  the  horses  to  jog  along,  and  for  some 
time  seemed  to  be  lost  in  thought.  Suddenly  he 
turned  to  me. 

"  What  is  your  opinion  of  Mary  Bullard's 
mother?  "  he  asked. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  I  replied,  "  that  is  a  very  pecu- 
liar question." 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  he,  with  a  smile.  "  But  it 
was  not  intended  to  be  a  question.  I  simply  hap- 
pened to  speak  my  thoughts  aloud.  We  have 
queer  thoughts  sometimes.  I  was  just  thinking 
that  Mrs.  Bullard  is  out  of  her  element  here.  She 
seems  to  try  hard  to  fit  herself  to  circumstances, 
but  they  are  so  different  from  those  she  was  brought 
up  in  that  they  refuse  to  be  fitted.  Were  you 
ever  in  Virginia,  Mr.  Wornum  ?  " 

"  I  never  was." 

"  Then,  of  course,  you  can't  understand  the  dif- 
ference between  —  between  —  well,  the  right  word 
is  lacking ;  but  let  us  say  roughly,  between  the 
society  there  and  the  society  here.  If  I  could  get 
hold  of  some  word  that  meant  social  hospitality 
and  all  its  results,  that  would  be  the  word  to  use. 
But  you  can  see  what  I  mean.  Now,  in  Virginia, 
where  Mrs.  Bullard  came  from,  society  means  a 
great  deal  more  than  the  word  conveys.  To  put 
it  broadly,  the  home  life  of  the  people  has  ex- 
panded until  it  takes  in  all  who  are  congenial. 
Now  there  is  not  the  smallest  symptom  of  that  sort 
in  your  little  community  here.  There  is  a  touch 
of  it  to  the  east  of  us  —  in  Wilkes  County  and 


TWO  STRANGERS  ARRIVE. 


301 


that  region.  I  am  as  sorry  for  Mrs.  Bullard  as  I 
ever  was  for  anybody  in  my  life.  I  should  ima- 
gine she  was  a  very  high-spirited  woman." 

I  could  appreciate  to  some  extent  the  justice  of 
his  remarks,  but  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  he 
was  such  a  close  observer. 

"  I  have  no  need  to  ask  your  opinion  of  the 
daughter,"  he  went  on  with  a  smile,  whereupon  I 
felt  my  face  reddening  — "  nor  anybody  else's 
opinion  for  that  matter,"  he  hastened  to  say,  as  if 
by  that  means  to  cover  my  blushes.  "  I  have  some- 
times wondered  that  she  has  never  married,  con- 
sidering at  what  an  early  age  the  girls  marry  now- 
adays. I  have  had  the  same  thoughts  about  you, 
and  it  is  as  impertinent  in  the  one  case  as  in  the 
other."  He  laughed  good-humoredly  and  chir- 
ruped to  the  horses. 

"  As  for  me,  I  have  passed  the  limit  by  a  dozen 
years,"  I  remarked. 

"  And  pray  what  is  that  limit  ?  " 

"  Thirty  years." 

"  So !  Then  I  am  a  quarter  of  a  century  be- 
yond it.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  lift  the  limit  to 
suit  the  circumstances.  What  is  a  dozen  years 
this  side  of  fifty?" 

"  As  to  your  case,"  I  suggested. 

"  Why,  bless  you !  a  quarter  of  a  century  is 
something  substantial.  It  stands  fiery  off,  like  the 
poet's  star.  Besides,  where  the  inclination  is  lack- 
ing the  will  is  dead.  Tut,  tut,  boy !  look  at  me  ! 
I  wanted  but  a  half  dozen  years  of  twenty-one. 


302 


SISTER  JANE. 


when  you  were  born.  I  was  rambling  about  the 
World  as  full  of  sedition  as  Aaron  Burr  before  you 
had  shed  your  milk  teeth.  You  're  a  mere  child  !  " 

Mr.  Cowardin's  good  humor  ran  high  —  higher 
than  I  had  known  it  to  do  before.  His  talk 
rambled  in  all  directions,  but  almost  invariably 
came  back  to  the  Bullards  or  to  our  own  little 
household. 

"  If  you  were  not  so  ready  to  blush,"  he  said  as 
we  drove  through  the  public  square  of  the  village, 
"  I  could  give  you  some  good  advice  and  tell  you 
some  good  news.  But  't  would  all  be  in  vain ; 
you 'd  blush  violently,  refuse  to  take  the  advice, 
brand  the  news  as  a  piece  of  fiction,  and  say  in 
your  heart,  4  The  man  is  a  spy.'  Some  day  when 
you've  nothing  on  your  mind  but  pleasant  thoughts, 
remind  me  of  the  advice  and  of  the  news  and  I  '11 
give  you  a  dose  of  both.  No,  no  !  not  now,  not  to- 
day !  "  he  protested  when  I  showed  a  disposition 
to  seek  the  advice  and  the  information.  "  Any 
other  day  would  be  better  than  this.  What  we 
need  now  is  a  good  dinner  and  some  hours  of  rest." 

But  I  noticed  with  some  surprise  that  Mr. 
Cowardin  ate  but  a  bite  of  dinner  when  we  reached 
home,  and  took  no  rest  at  all,  for  I  saw  him  soon 
after  walking  about  the  village  with  the  gentleman 
we  had  seen  driving  the  buggy.  He  finally  came 
with  the  gentleman  as  far  as  our  gate,  showed  him 
Colonel  Bullard's  house,  and  then  came  into  my 
room. 

•    "  I 'm  still  puzzled  over  the  chap  we  saw  this 


TWO  STRANGERS  ARRIVE. 


303 


morning,"  he  said  as  he  seated  himself.  "  The 
man  who  was  driving  the  buggy  is  a  Mr.  More- 
land  of  Richmond.  He  used  to  know  Mrs.  Bul- 
lard  in  Virginia  when  she  was  a  girl.  He  has  just 
gone  to  pay  her  his  respects.  No  doubt  she  '11 
be  glad  to  see  anybody  she  knew  when  she  was 
a  girl.  But  this  man  seems  to  be  a  pretty  tough 
customer.  They  tell  me  at  the  tavern  that  he 
had  the  whole  town  searched  until  a  handful  of 
mint  was  found,  and  then  he  seemed  to  be  as 
happy  as  a  lord.  He  smells  as  if  some  one  had 
poured  a  bottle  of  bergamot  oil  over  his  clothes. 
Faugh  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Cowardin,  "  wherever  he 
goes,  people  will  imagine  he  is  a  typical  Virginia 
gentleman.  Outwardly  he 's  the  poorest  kind  of  a 
counterfeit,  whatever  he  may  be  inwardly.1' 

"  What  is  he  doing  so  far  from  home  ?  "  I  in- 
quired, striking  involuntarily  the  usual  note  of 
provinciality. 

"Traveling  —  traveling  as  he  thinks  all  Vir- 
ginia gentlemen  should,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin. 
"  But  think  of  a  Virginia  gentleman  talking  about 
nothing  but  racing  events,  cock  mains,  and  driving 
all  over  the  country  to  see  them  !  Nonsense  !  If 
you  could  search  under  the  seat  of  his  buggy 
you 'd  find  all  the  tools  of  a  blackleg,  including  a 
dozen  bottles  of  liquor." 

Mr.  Cowardin  seemed  to  be  very  much  disgusted 
with  the  handsome  Mr.  Moreland.  And  the  man 
was  handsome,  despite  the  somewhat  puffy  appear- 
ance of  his  face.  He  had  curly  black  hair,  a  strong 


304 


SISTER  JANE. 


profile,  and  he  walked  with  a  swagger  that  was  by 
no  means  unbecoming. 

"  As  to  the  other  fellow,"  Mr.  Cowardin  was 
going  to  say,  when  I  interrupted  him  — 

"  But  if  this  Mr.  Moreland  disgusts  you,  why 
bother  about  the  other  fellow,  who  may  be  worse." 

"  That 's  the  point.  I  want  to  see  whether  he 's 
worse  or  better.  He  may  be  the  real  gentleman, 
you  know.  But  this  Moreland  pretends  to  know 
as  little  about  him  as  I  do.  It  seems  he  picked 
him  up  somewhere  several  weeks  ago,  and  has 
been  carrying  him  along  for  company.  Moreland 
is  n't  even  sure  of  the  man's  name.  He  calls  him 
Satellite,  but  thinks  his  name  is  Simpson  or  Samp- 
son. The  name  is  nothing  to  me.  I  know  the 
man's  face ;  it  puzzles  me,  and  I  want  to  find  out 
where  I  saw  him  last." 

"  Well,  I  see  nothing  in  him  to  puzzle  or  to  in- 
terest anybody,"  I  said.  "  I  too  have  seen  the  man 
somewhere,  but  I  would  n't  give  a  copper  to  know 
when  or  where." 

"  Oh,  you  have  other  matters  to  think  about," 
remarked  Mr.  Cowardin,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye', 
—  "interesting  matters,  too,  if  I'm  any  judge; 
while  I  have  little  else  to  occupy  my  mind  at  the 
present  moment.  I 've  already  found  out  that  my 
man  has  gone  out  of  town  into  the  country,  and  that 
he  rode  4  shank's  mare,'  as  the  saying  is." 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  I  cried.  "  I  was  cer- 
tain he  belonged  hereabouts.  The  next  time  you 
see  him,  he  '11  be  driving  a  yoke  of  steers,  hitched 


TWO  STRANGERS  ARRIVE. 


305 


to  a  big  wagon,  and  in  the  wagon  he  '11  have  three 
pounds  of  frothy  white  butter,  two  dozen  eggs,  and 
a  half  dozen  sickly  chickens.  He  '11  exchange  these 
for  eight  yards  of  calico,  a  hank  of  yarn,  a  plug  of 
tobacco,  and  a  bottle  of  Maccaboy  snuff." 

Mr.  Cowardin  laughed,  and,  calling  for  Cap,  — 
the  day  being  Saturday  and  a  school  holiday,  — 
went  out  into  the  street,  and  a  little  while  after  I 
saw  them  go  by  on  horseback,  the  lad  on  the 
pony,  which,  instead  of  being  vicious,  was  now 
merely  full  of  spirit.  As  they  rode  away,  I  no- 
ticed (and  not  for  the  first  time)  a  striking  resem- 
blance between  the  two  — a  resemblance  that  was 
not  confined  to  their  pose  and  gestures,  but  was 
carried  out  in  the  profiles  of  their  faces ;  and  I 
wondered  whether  this  man  was  playing  a  part, 
whether  the  story  he  had  told  us  about  the  child 
was  not  a  fabrication.  It  was  an  idle  thought,  and 
I  did  not  pursue  it  far,  keeping  my  eye  on  the 
door  of  Colonel  Bullard's  house.  I  desired  to  see 
how  long  the  stranger  would  remain,  yet  I  knew 
that  such  curiosity  was  vulgar  and  unworthy.  It  re- 
mained ungratified,  too,  for  the  stranger  failed  to 
issue  forth  from  the  house  while  I  sat  in  my  room. 
I  judged  from  this  that  he  had  found  a  warm  wel- 
come there,  which  was,  indeed,  the  fact,  as  we  found 
out  from  Mary,  who  declared  with  a  laugh  that  her 
mother  was  entertaining  one  of  her  old  beaux. 

"  You  should  see  her,"  Mary  said  to  sister  Jane. 
"  You  can't  realize  the  change.  I  went  into  the 
parlor  to  entertain  him  while  mamma  was  primp- 


306 


SISTER  JANE. 


ing,  and  I  thought  I  was  succeeding  pretty  well. 
But  when  mamma  came  sweeping  in,  looking  like 
a  girl,  she  cast  poor  me  into  the  shade.  '  Why, 
Fanny  !  '  said  the  gentleman,  4  you  look  hardly  a 
day  older  than  you  did  the  day  I  last  saw  you,' 
and  in  the  midst  of  their  compliments  I  slipped 
out.  And  —  just  think  of  it !  —  they  never  missed 
me  !  Don't  you  think  it  is  too  bad,  Mr.  William," 
she  went  on  turning  to  me,  "  that  a  poor  girl  should 
have  a  mamma  as  young  as  she  is  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  I  replied  stoutly  ;  "  not  when 
the  mamma  is  as  beautiful  and  as  charming  as  the 
daughter." 

Sister  Jane  paused  in  her  work,  whatever  it  was 
(for  she  was  never  idle  a  moment  save  when  she 
was  sound  asleep),  and  looked  hard  at  me,  and 
Mary  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"  William  is  coming  out,"  said  sister  Jane. 
"  He 's  been  to  the  asylum  in  a  carriage,  and  he 's 
got  charge  of  a  tumble-down  plantation,  where  the 
buzzards  are  setting  on  the  fence,  waiting  for  the 
mules  and  cows  to  die  of  starvation.  Why,  a  month 
ago  he  'd  no  more  'a'  spoke  a  piece  like  that,  jest 
dry  so  without  any  provocation,  than  he'd  'a' 
jumped  in  the  Oconee  River  with  his  clothes  on." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  he 's  coming  out  at  all,"  re- 
marked Mary,  laughing  at  sister  Jane's  good-na- 
tured sarcasm.  "  It  does  n't  seem  natural  to  hear 
him  paying  compliments.  Yet  it  was  such  a  neat 
and  pretty  one  I  think  we  should  forgive  him  this 
time.    Mamma  would,  I  know." 


TWO  STRANGERS  ARRIVE. 


307 


"  For  one  of  my  age "  —  I  tried  to  speak  as 
blandly  as  I  knew  how,  but  I  could  feel  my  voice 
shake  a  little  —  "  it  should  have  been  a  compliment 
to  the  mamma,  but  it  was  n't." 

Sister  Jane  pretended  to  heave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"  I  declare,  William !  when  you  said  4  one  of  my 
age,'  I  thought  you  were  going  ahead  and  speak 
that  piece  about '  appearing  in  public  on  the  stage,' 
and  I  says  to  myself,  4  Laws  have  mercy !  Maybe 
we  've  gone  and  left  the  wrong  folks  at  the  asy- 
lum.' " 

I  sometimes  thought  that  sister  Jane  pushed  her 
humorous  comments  too  far,  and  this  was  one  of  the 
occasions ;  but  Mary  neither  laughed  nor  paid  any 
attention  to  the  remark. 

"  You  are  indeed  venerable,  Mr.  William,"  she 
said  lightly.  "  After  a  while  I  shall  have  to  lend 
you  a  crutch.  We  have  a  pair  somewhere  about 
the  house." 

I  felt  grateful  to  her  for  passing  off  so  serious  a 
matter  as  a  joke,  and  I  looked  my  thanks,  if  I  did 
not  speak  them. 

"  William's  age  is  like  the  moonshine,"  remarked 
sister  Jane  ;  "  bright  enough  to  blind,  but  not  hot 
enough  to  burn.  It 's  a  disease  with  him.  He  '11 
be  old  long  before  his  time." 

"  What  I  mean,"  said  I,  "  is  that  I  am  old  as 
compared  with  Mary." 

"  Oh,  is  that  it  ?  "  cried  Mary.  "  Then  I  am  old 
and  decrepit  as  compared  with  Mr.  Cowardin's 
little  boy.    It  is  dreadful  to  be  so  old.    I  '11  limp 


308 


SISTER  JANE. 


home  and  see  whether  our  famous  company  has 
gone,  or  whether  he  is  to  stay  to  tea."  She  limped 
from  the  room,  but,  the  moment  she  was  outside, 
ran  along  the  garden  walk  as  nimbly  and  as  grace- 
fully as  a  fawn. 

The  gentleman  stayed  to  tea,  and  for  some  time 
afterwards,  and  we  heard  that  night  what  was  new 
to  our  ears  —  the  rippling,  musical  laughter  of 
Mrs.  Bullard  come  floating  across  the  garden. 

"  Fanny  Brandon 's  come  to  life  again,"  re- 
marked sister  Jane  grimly,  when  she  heard  it. 

The  next  day  or  the  day  after,  Grandsir  Roach 
and  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  came  knocking  at  our 
door,  as  they  had  done  many  times  since  Mandy 
Satterlee  took  up  her  abode  with  us,  and  I  was 
glad  of  it,  for  they  always  had  something  both  sen- 
sible and  cheerful  to  say.  Their  visits  seemed  to 
make  Mandy  brighter,  being  the  strongest  evidence 
that  she  still  had  a  hold  on  the  hearts  of  those  who 
had  known  her  in  her  happier  days.  These  old 
friends  came  now,  bearing  gifts.  There  were  some 
dozens  of  fresh  eggs  and  a  few  pounds  of  butter 
for  sister  Jane,  some  yards  of  checked  cloth  for 
Mandy,  and  some  socks,  a  knit  jacket,  a  pair  of 
mittens,  and  a  cloth  hat  for  Klibs,  Mandy' s  baby. 
Grandsir  Roach  explained  the  matter  :  — 

"  When  I  seed  what  Sally  and  Prue  was  a-doin' 

—  or  as  you  may  say,  what  they  had  done  gone 
an'  done,  for  I  never  know'd  what  'pon  top  of  the 
green  globe  they  was  a-doin'  ontil  it  was  done  done 

—  when  I  seed  how  big  it  looked  to  bring,  an'  how 


TWO  STRANGERS  ARRIVE. 


309 


little  it 'd  look  arter  it  was  brung,  I  says  to  'em, 
says  I,  4  What  in  the  name  of  sense  are  you  two 
wimmen  a-doin'  ?  Don't  you  know  in  reason  that 
this  little  bunch  of  eggs  an'  this  here  little  dab  of 
butter  will  look  mighty  poor  an'  small  by  the  side 
of  the  store  what  J ane  has  already  got  laid  in  ? ' 
says  I.    I  leave  it  to  Brother  Cosby  here." 

"  He  said  them  very  words,"  remarked  this  will- 
ing witness.  "  4  They  '11  look  poor  an'  small,'  says 
he,  4  by  the  side  of  the  store  what  Jane  has  already 
got  laid  in,'  says  he." 

Grandsir  Roach  looked  relieved.    "  An'  Sally 

—  it  mought  'a'  been  Prue,  but  I  think 't  was  Sally 

—  says,  says  she,  4  Well,  I  don't  keer  how  they 
look  ;  the  eggs  is  new  laid  an'  the  butter  is  fresh 
made,  an'  we  '11  send  'em  anyhow,  let  'em  look 
ever  so  small  by  the  side  of  what  Jane 's  got,'  says 
she." 

44  Well,  goodness  knows,"  sister  Jane  began,  but 
Grandsir  Eoach  closed  his  eyes,  pressed  his  lips 
together,  shook  his  head,  and  lifted  his  hand.  He 
would  not  be  interrupted,  and  sister  Jane  was  com- 
pelled to  pause  and  listen. 

44  'T  was  uther  Sally  or  Prue,  I  '11  not  be  too 
mighty  certain  which,  an'  she  says,  says  she,  4  Let 
'em  look  small  as  they  will  by  the  side  of  what 
Jane 's  got,  we  '11  send  'em  anyhow,'  says  she,  4  be- 
kaze  it  hain't  the  size,  or  the  heft,  or  the  wuth  of 
the  things — it 's  the  intent,'  says  she."  He  turned 
his  head  slowly  and  looked  at  his  companion  for 
confirmation. 


310 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  You  've  got  eve'y  twist  and  turn  of  the  dis- 
course, Brother  Roach,"  said  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby ; 
"  you 've  got  it  pat.  'T  was  uther  Prue  or  Sally, 
I  '11  not  say  which.  '  It 's  not  the  heft  of  what 's 
in  the  hamper,'  says  she,  6  it 's  the  intent  what  goes 
wi'  it  for  good  measure,'  says  she.  Whichever  an' 
whatsoever  it  was,  she  said  them  very  words." 

"  Well,  may  the  Lord  bless  the  good  old  souls  !  " 
exclaimed  sister  Jane  with  real  enthusiasm.  "  J  est 
tell  'em  that  if  there  was  but  one  egg  and  but  one 
spoonful  of  butter,  I 'd  be  glad  to  have  it.  It 'd  be 
a  sign  they  had  me  in  their  minds,  and  what  more 
do  I  want  than  that  ?  " 

"  We  '11  tell  'em,  Jane  ;  we  shorely  will.  It  '11 
make  'em  both  feel  better,"  said  Grand  sir  Roach. 

"  Yes 'm,"  remarked  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby, 
"  we  shorely  tell  'em,  an'  they  '11  be  might'ly  holp 
up  —  might'ly  holp  up." 

"  Mandy,  honey,  did  Sandy  tell  you  wharabouts 
he 'd  been  at,  an'  all  he 'd  saw  sence  he 's  been 
gone  ?  "  asked  Grandsir  Roach. 

«  Who  —  Bud  ?  "  cried  Mandy.  "  Why,  I  hain't 
laid  livin'  eyes  on  Bud,  not  sence  the  day  he  come 
an'  tol'  me  good-by." 

"  You  hain't !  "  exclaimed  Grandsir  Roach.  He 
turned  his  eyes  solemnly  on  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby. 
"  You  hear  that,  Brother  Cosby  !  Mandy  hain't 
seed  nuther  ha'r  nor  hide  of  Sandy,  not  sence  the 
day  she  told  him  good-by !  " 

"  Tooby  shore  !  Tooby  shore  !  "  said  Uncle 
Jimmy  Cosby  in  sad  surprise.    "  You  may  well  say 


TWO  STRANGERS  ARRIVE. 


311 


4  tooby  shore,'  Brother  Cosby,"  remarked  Grandsir 
Roach. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby,  44  bekaze  we 
seed  him  no  longer 'n  yistiddy." 

"  Bud  ?    You  seed  Bud  ?  "  cried  Mandy. 

44  With  our  four  eyes,"  replied  Grandsir  Roach 
solemnly.  "  An'  more  'n  that,  we  teched  him  with 
our  hands,  an'  talked  wi'  'im  by  word  of  mouth." 

"  A  true  word  !  We  seed  'im  wi'  our  four  eyes  !  " 
echoed  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby.  "  As  true  a  word  as 
ever  was  spoke." 

"  An'  you  reely  seed  Bud  !  "  Mandy's  voice  was 
low,  as  though  she  knew  not  what  to  say.  She 
seemed  to  be  dazed. 

"  As  plain  as  we  see  you  a-standin'  thar,"  said 
Grandsir  Roach.  "  We  not  only  seed  him,  we 
talked  wi'  'im  ;  we  not  only  talked  wi'  'im,  we  shuck 
hands  wi'  'im,  an'  passed  the  time  of  day." 

"  Percizely  !  "  responded  Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby. 

"  I  says  to  him,  says  I,  4  Sandy,  your  cloze  is  all 
right,  but  you  look  stove  up.  You  look  much  as 
if  you 'd  been  drug  thoo  a  hot  sandbank  feet  fore- 
most.' I  said  them  very  words.  '  What  in  the 
nation  is  the  matter  wi'  you  ?  '  says  I." 

"  He  says,  says  he,  4  Grandsir,  you  ought  to 
know  as  well  as  me.  You  know  I 've  had  fam'ly 
troubles,'  says  he.  Says  I,  6  Sandy,  the  only  fam'ly 
trouble  I  ever  know'd  you  to  have  was  Dram,' 
says  I.  4  You  had  it  by  the  time  you  could  vote, 
if  not  before,  an'  you 've  got  it  yit,  or  your  breath 
belies  you,'  says  I." 


312 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  Oh,  don't  blame  Bud  —  blame  me !  "  cried 
Mandy.    "  Lay  all  the  blame  on  me  !  " 

"You  hear  that,  Jane,  William,  an'  Brother 
Cosby  ?  "  said  Grandsir  Roach  solemnly,  almost 
reproachfully.  "  It 's  mighty  few  things  you  could 
ax  me,  honey,  that  I  would  n't  run  an'  jump  to  do, 
but  I  '11  be  danged  if  I  do  that." 

"  What  did  I  say  to  you,  Brother  Roach  ?  "  in- 
quired Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  indignantly,  "  Did  n't 
I  say  to  you  right  before  his  face  that  Sandy  Sat- 
terlee  was  a  triflin'  vagabon'  from  the  day  he  put 
on  britches  ?  Did  n't  I  tell  him  so,  an'  dar'  him 
to  take  it  up  ?  " 

"  You  did,  Brother  Cosby ;  I  '11  say  that  for  you. 
You  shorely  did." 

"  If  Bud 's  a  vagabon'  I 'm  the  cause  of  it,"  said 
Mandy.    "  I  know  it  an'  feel  it.    Oh,  me !  " 

She  placed  her  hands  before  her  face  to  hide 
her  tears.  At  this  sister  Jane  stepped  forward, 
caught  hold  of  Mandy's  hands,  and  forcibly 
pulled  them  away  from  her  face. 

"  Look  at  me,  Mandy !  "  she  said  sternly ;  "  that 's 
not  the  truth,  and  you  know  it,  and  if  you  don't 
know  it  it 's  because  you 've  got  the  tenderest,  lov- 
ingest  heart  that  ever  beat." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  it  to  be  the  truth,"  cried 
Mandy,  "  but  I 'm  afeard  it  is  —  I 'm  afeard  it  is !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Jane !  Thank  you  kindly  for 
that,"  said  Grandsir  Roach.  "  Brother  Cosby  an' 
me  can  set  an'  think,  an'  we  do  a  heap  of  it  fust  an' 
last,  but  not  like  you,  Jane.    You  know  how  to 


TWO  STE ANGERS  ARRIVE. 


313 


say  the  right  word.  Good-by,  J ane ;  good-by, 
honey,  ontell  you  see  me  ag'in.  Me  an'  Brother 
Cosby  have  got  to  be  a-makin'  our  departure. 
We  '11  drap  in  before  long  —  an'  may  God  bless 
you  all ! " 

Uncle  Jimmy  Cosby  shook  hands  in  silence  until 
he  came  to  Mandy.  He  held  her  hand  a  moment 
in  both  of  his,  patted  it  gently,  and  said :  — 

"  Don't  fret,  honey ;  don't  fret.  We  're  con- 
stant a-thinkin'  about  you." 


XXII. 


AN  ANGKY  WOMAN. 

Mandy  seemed  to  be  very  much  troubled  be- 
cause her  brother,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  so 
many  years,  had  ignored  her  on  his  return,  and 
she  wondered  why  it  was  so,  and  grieved  over  it  as 
a  woman  will. 

"  He  started  out  as  a  vagabond,"  said  sister 
Jane  in  her  matter-of-fact  way,  "  and  he 's  got 
worse  and  worse.  You  may  thank  your  stars 
that  he 's  done  gone  and  forgot  all  about  you. 
He  ain't  worth  a  thought." 

But  this  explanation  was  not  satisfactory  to 
Mandy.  "  I'm  to  blame,"  she  repeated  over  and 
over  again.  "  I  'm  the  one  that 's  to  blame.  Ef 
it  had  n't  but  'a'  been  for  me,  he 'd  'a'  stayed  here 
at  home,  an'  maybe  he 'd  'a'  been  doin'  well  by 
this  time.    Oh,  me  !  " 

"  Was  he  doing  well  before  he  went  away  ?  " 
sister  J ane  inquired. 

"  Well,  he  was  gittin'  ready  to  go  to  work  an' 
settle  down,"  was  Mandy's  reply. 

"It  frets  me  to  hear  you  talk  so,"  sister  Jane 
insisted.  "  He 's  never  done  a  hand's  turn  in  his 
life,  and  he  never  will.    He  was  born  trifling 


AN  ANGRY  WOMAN.  315 

and  he 's  stayed  so.  He  ain't  worth  the  wrappings 
of  your  little  finger.  He  '11  never  put  his  foot  in- 
side my  gate,  not  if  I  know  it." 

Sin  has  a  long  arm,  but  Mandy  gave  it  credit 
for  having  a  longer.  So  she  worried  herself  over 
her  brother  day  after  day.  But  he  never  came  to 
see  her,  and  when  he  did  come,  it  seemed  to  be 
mightily  against  his  will. 

When  Jincy  Meadows  made  his  visit  to  Mandy 
he  brought  news  of  her  brother,  and,  although  it 
was  puzzling  to  me,  it  seemed  to  be  the  most  satis- 
fying that  she  had  heard. 

"  I  reckon  maybe  you  ain't  seen  much  of  Sandy 
sence  he  took  up  his  residence  with  the  dry  cattle," 
said  Jincy. 

"  I  hain't  laid  eyes  on  him,"  replied  Mandy, 
"  bekaze  he  hain't  been  a-nigh  me." 

"  And  he  ain't  comin'  if  he  can  help  it,"  Jincy 
went  on.  "  Why,  he 's  a  sight  to  behold,  Sandy  is. 
What  he 's  got  on  his  mind,  I  can't  tell  you,  be- 
cause I  don't  know,  but  it 's  lots  bigger  than  he 's 
got  room  for  —  I  can  tell  you  that." 

"  Oh,  I  know  he 's  troubled  about  me,"  cried 
Mandy. 

"  You  would  n't  say  so  if  you  could  see  him," 
said  Jincy.  "  He  goes  about  the  woods  like  a 
stray  steer.  If  he  had  horns  and  know'd  how  to  bel- 
low, he 'd  be  the  identical  thing  itself.  His  voice 
is  as  squeaky  as  if  he 'd  been  callin'  out  the  figgers 
at  a  stag  dance.  He 's  got  horns,  but  he  gits  'em 
out  of  a  bottle." 


316 


SISTEB  JANE. 


"  Yes  —  I  know,"  cried  Mandy.  "  I  've  drove 
him  to  drink." 

"  There  you  go  !  "  exclaimed  Jincy.  "  Ain't  I 
tellin'  you  that  Sandy 's  done  something  he 's  sorry 
for  ?  You  know  what  sort  of  a  chap  he  is  better  'n 
I  do,  and  I  know  him  toler'ble  well.  I  run  up  on 
him  in  the  woods  the  other  day.  He  was  settin'  at 
the  foot  of  a  tree  dozin'  like,  and  close  to  his  head 
was  a  bottle.  Says  I,  '  Sandy,  what 's  the  word  ?  ' 
says  he,  4  Jincy,  if  I  was  as  happy  as  you  it  would 
be  a  good  word.'  Says  I,  '  If  I  was  sorry,  Sandy, 
I  would  n't  try  to  drown  it  in  the  flowin'  bowl,  nor 
in  the  bottle  neither.'  Says  he,  4  The  bowl  that 's 
big  enough  to  drown  mine  in  ain't  never  been 
made,  Jincy.'  Says  I,  '  Sandy,  have  you  been  to 
see  your  sister  sence  you  got  back  ? '  Says  he, 
4  Jincy,  I  could  n't  bear  to  have  Mandy  look  at 
me.  I  used  to  rail  at  her,'  says  he,  *  but  she 's  too 
good  to  so  much  as  look  at  me.' " 

"Did  he  say  that?"  asked  Mandy  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  He  did,"  said  Jincy,  "  and  more !  " 

I  thought  to  myself  that  if  it  was  a  piece  of 
Jincy's  own  invention  it  was  done  cleverly  and 
in  a  good  cause. 

"  What  more  ?  "  Mandy  inquired. 

"  He  says,  '  The  next  time  you  see  Mandy, 
Jincy,  tell  her  howdy,  and  tell  her  that  if  I 'd  'a' 
done  as  she  wanted  me  to  do  I 'd  'a'  been  better 
off  than  I  am  right  now  or  ever  will  be  ag'in.'  " 

"  Poor  Bud  !   I  never  was  so  sorry  for  anybody 


AN  ANGRY  WOMAN. 


317 


in  my  life  !  "  Mandy  sighed  deeply,  and  no  doubt 
would  have  wept  if  Jincy  had  n't  been  sitting  close 
by  with  his  Sunday  clothes  on.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  something  of  a  relief  to  her  to  feel  that  she 
was  not  directly  responsible  for  her  brother's  con- 
dition of  mind  and  body. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  Mr.  Cowardin  called 
me  aside.  "I've  found  my  man,"  he  said.  "The 
man  we  saw  with  our  friend  Moreland,"  he  ex- 
plained, seeing  that  I  did  not  follow  him. 

"  Where  is  he?  "  I  inquired  in  rather  an  aim- 
less way. 

"  In  my  room,"  he  replied.  "  He 's  a  little 
shaky,  and  needs  bolstering  up,  but  as  sure  as 
you  're  born,  the  fellow  has  information  in  him. 
Why,  he 's  an  old  traveling  companion  of  mine. 
Pie  was  in  the  wagon  train  that  I  carried  to  Cali- 
fornia. He 's  as  cold-blooded  a  scoundrel  as  I  ever 
saw,"  Mr.  Cowardin  continued  almost  savagely, 
"  and  I  expect  to  have  many  a  pleasant  hour  with 
him." 

I  did  n't  pretend  to  understand  this,  but  it  was 
all  the  explanation  I  could  get  at  the  time.  Mr. 
Cowardin  went  off  in  high  glee,  apparently,  and 
we  saw  little  of  him,  except  at  meal-times,  for  two 
or  three  days. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Moreland,  the  Virginian  gentle- 
man, was  a  daily  visitor  at  Colonel  Bullard's.  If 
he  wasn't  there  in  the  afternoons  he  was  there 
after  tea.  The  Colonel's  wife  evidently  found  him 
very  agreeable  company,  for  on  more  than  one 


318 


SISTER  JANE. 


occasion  we  saw  her  riding  out  behind  his  hand- 
some bays,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the 
villagers.  It  could  not  be  denied  that  they  made 
a  handsome  couple  as  they  whirled  through  the 
streets  in  the  buggy  drawn  by  the  high-stepping 
horses.  The  Colonel's  wife  seemed  to  have  grown 
very  much  younger.  Her  eyes  sparkled  with  some- 
thing of  the  ardor  of  youth,  and  color  began  to 
show  in  her  face.  She  came  to  see  sister  Jane 
once  after  she  had  been  riding  with  Mr.  More- 
land,  and  I  could  imagine  how  beautiful  she  had 
been  in  her  youth.  Indeed,  she  was  not  so  old 
now,  and  only  a  little  excitement  and  exercise  in 
congenial  company  were  necessary  to  make  her  a 
very  handsome  woman.  I  could  see  that,  and  I 
wondered  if  Colonel  Bullard  himself  was  so  blind 
that  he  failed  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  provid- 
ing the  gentle  stimulant  of  congenial  company  and 
outdoor  exercise  for  his  wife. 

Such  was  my  thought,  and  I  have  remembered 
it  and  smiled  a  hundred  times  over  its  shallow  in- 
consequence, for,  right  upon  its  heels,  I  found  my- 
self the  unwilling  spectator  of  an  episode  so  ex- 
travagant and  sensational  as  to  cause  me  to  doubt 
the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes  and  ears. 

Of  one  episode,  did  I  say  ?  It  never  rains  but  it 
pours,  and  for  a  time  I  seemed  to  be  overwhelmed 
with  a  flood  of  the  most  painful  experiences  that 
could  be  imagined.  And  yet  in  these,  as  in  the 
ordinary  affairs  of  life,  the  hand  of  Providence 
was  guiding,  and  the  fact  struck  me  with  such  force 


AN  ANGRY  WOMAN. 


319 


as  to  enable  me  to  fortify  my  mind  and  to  main- 
tain a  confidence  in  human  nature  that  otherwise 
would  have  been  sadly  shaken. 

I  said  awhile  ago  that  the  Colonel's  wife  came 
to  visit  sister  Jane  after  one  of  her  rides  with 
Mr.  Moreland.  As  matters  turned  out,  it  was 
her  last  ride  with  that  person.  That  night  sister 
Jane  and  myself,  were  sitting  in  her  room,  talking 
about  poor  Mrs.  Beshears  and  the  affairs  of  her 
estate,  when  we  heard  Mr.  Cowardin  enter  the 
house.  We  knew  him  by  the  firm  way  in  which 
he  walked.  He  came  along  the  hall,  paused  as  if 
listening,  and  then,  coming  to  sister  Jane's  room, 
rapped  lightly  on  the  lintel,  the  door  being  partly 
closed. 

"  Come  in  and  tell  us  howdy,"  said  sister  Jane. 

Mr.  Cowardin  came  in,  looked  about  the  room, 
and  then  went  to  the  door  again  and  looked  up 
and  down  the  hallway. 

44  I  saw  a  buggy  standing  at  the  door,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  and  I  was  certain  you  had  company." 

44  A  buggy  !  "  cried  sister  Jane.  44  Why,  what 
upon  earth  !  " 

"  Mr.  Moreland's  team,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin.  44 1 
thought  the  gentleman  had  come  to  shake  hands 
all  around."  His  tone  was  half  serious,  half  sar- 
castic. 

44  When  I  want  to  shake  hands  with  a  demi- 
john," remarked  sister  Jane,  44 1  '11  go  over  to  the 
tavern  and  shake  hands  with  a  new  one." 

Ordinarily,  Mr.  Cowardin  would  have  laughed 


320 


SISTER  JANE. 


at  this  comment,  but  now  he  did  not  even  smile. 
He  stood  in  the  floor  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, and  stared  steadily  at  the  dim  flame  of  the 
candle  that  was  sputtering  on  the  stand  close  to 
sister  Jane's  head  as  she  leaned  over  her  sewing. 

"  You  know  the  fellow  I  was  hunting  for  and 
'  found,"  he  said,  turning  his  eyes  on  me.  "  Well, 
he 's  an  interesting  person.  He 's  a  little  shaky  on 
his  feet,  but  he 's  sober  now,  as  he  says,  for  the 
first  time  in  several  years.  He 's  full  of  informa- 
tion, and  some  of  it  will  surprise  you  as  much  as 
it  did  me.  He  told  me  something  that  I  thought 
was  a  preposterous  lie,  but  I 'm  afraid  it 's  the 
truth.    At  any  rate  we  shall  soon  see." 

Pat  upon  the  word,  we  heard  a  rustle  in  the 
hallway,  the  light  tread  of  nimble  feet,  and  the 
next  moment  Mrs.  Bullard  entered.  She  seemed 
to  be  arranged  for  a  journey.  She  had  on  a  dove- 
colored  frock,  the  soberest  garment  I  had  ever  seen 
her  wear.  She  had  entered  the  room  apparently 
in  great  haste,  but  paused  as  she  saw  Mr.  Co  war- 
din.  He  made  way  for  her,  lifted  his  hat,  and, 
without  speaking,  turned  and  went  outside  the 
door  into  the  hall.  The  surprise  that  the  Colonel's 
wife  felt  on  seeing  him  showed  plainly  in  her  face 
and  manner,  but  she  recovered  herself  almost  im- 
mediately. 

"  I 've  just  come  to  say  good-by,  Jane.  I 'm  go- 
ing back  to  my  home  and  people.  You  know  what 
my  life  has  been  here,  but  you  don't  know  all. 
You  don't  know  what  I  know.    Just  think  of  a 


AN  ANGRY  WOMAN. 


321 


Brandon,  Jane,  leading  the  dog's  life  I  have  led. 
Go  out  to-morrow  and  look  at  the  big  kennel  on 
the  corner,  and  thank  God  that  Fanny  Brandon 
has  broken  the  chain  at  last." 

"Why,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  asked 
sister  Jane.    "  You  talk  like  a  crazy  person." 

"  Don't  ask  me,  Jane  —  don't  ask  me  !  You  '11 
find  out  soon  enough.  Crazy  !  I  have  never  had 
a  sane  moment  until  this  hour  !  Where  is  Mandy 
Satterlee  ?  I  must  thank  that  woman  for  giving 
me  an  excuse  for  leaving  the  people  I  loathe  and 
the  life  I'  hate  !  " 

She  had  worked  herself  into  a  grand  passion, 
and  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  more  beautiful  the 
more  furious  she  grew.  Mandy,  who  was  in  the 
room  across  the  hall,  came  in  just  then. 

"  Did  anybody  call  me  ?  "  she  asked.  Seeing 
Mrs.  Bullard,  she  blushed.  "  I  declare,  I 'm  a 
sight  to  be  comin'  in  here.  I  did  n't  know  you 
had  company." 

"  Never  mind  the  company,  Mandy  Satterlee  !  " 
exclaimed  the  Colonel's  wife.  "  I 'm  going  away 
from  here,  and  I  've  called  to  tell  you  good-by  and 
to  thank  you  for  what  you 've  done  for  me." 

"  What  I 've  done  for  you  !  "  Even  by  the  dim 
light  of  the  sputtering  candle  I  could  see  Mandy's 
face  grow  white. 

"  You  know  what  it  is,  Mandy  Satterlee  !  You 
know  well,  and  I  want  to  thank  you.  Who  could 
have  thought  that  you  would  have  been  the  one  to 
give  me  freedom  ?  " 


322 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  Oh,  me  !  Oh,  have  n't  I  had  trouble  enough  ?  " 
Mandy's  cry  was  a  heart-rending  one.  It  was  a 
note  of  anguish,  of  self-condemnation,  and  an  ap- 
peal for  mercy.  I  hope  never  to  hear  such  a  cry 
again  either  in  this  world  or  the  next.  She  threw 
herself  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  a  chair,  leaning 
heavily  across  it,  the  picture  of  misery  and  de- 
spair. 

The  Colonel's  wife  went  close  to  Mandy  and 
stood  above  her  with  clenched  hands,  breathing 
hard. 

"  Oh,  to  think  of  it !  "  she  exclaimed,  turning  to 
sister  Jane  with  tragic  hints  in  her  eyes.  "To 
think  that  she  "  —  the  Colonel's  wife  raised  her 
hand  and  pointed  at  Mandy  with  a  gesture  of  rage 
and  scorn  —  "  to  think  that  she  should  have  been 
the  one!  Why,  Jane,"  —  she  lowered  her  voice 
almost  to  a  whisper,  —  "I  loved  that  man  !  Yau 
would  n't  believe  it,  would  you  ?  I  loved  him  — 
but  now  I  hate  him  —  oh,  I  loathe  the  very  air  he 
breathes ! " 

"  Oh,  why  —  why  can't  I  die  ?  "  moaned  Mandy. 

"  Die  !  "  cried  the  Colonel's  wife.  "  Why  do 
you  want  to  die?  Who  are  you,  and  what  are 
you  ?  I  am  the  one  to  die  —  and  I  am  dead  to 
that  man.  Oh,  the  miserable  creature  !  Why  did 
Satan  throw  him  in  my  way  ?  " 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Cowardin  appeared  in  the 
doorway  and  motioned  me  to  him,  whereupon  I 
hastened  out  of  the  room,  glad  of  any  sort  of  an 
excuse  to  fly  from  a  scene  so  paralyzing.    I  re- 


AN  ANGRY  WOMAN. 


323 


member  that  I  was  glad  to  feel  I  could  use  my 
limbs  at  all.  Once  out  of  the  room  I  breathed 
freer. 

In  the  dark  hallway,  Mr.  Cowardin  laid  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder.  "  If  she  starts  away,"  he  said, 
"  detain  her.  Use  force  if  necessary.  Within 
twenty-four  hours  she  '11  thank  you  for  all  the 
bruises  you  give  her." 

He  turned  and  went  swiftly  out  into  the  street. 
What  he  did  there  he  told  me  within  half  an  hour. 
He  went  to  the  buggy,  and  leaned  against  it, 
placing  one  hand  on  the  framework  and  the  other 
on  the  whip-thimble. 

"  The  lady  sends  word  that  she  can't  come,"  he 
said.  "  She  says  the  gentleman  must  go  away  with 
all  possible  speed." 

The  occupant  of  the  vehicle  was  Moreland,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  more  than  half  drunk. 

"  Where 's  Fanny  ?  "  he  cried.  "  I  saw  her  go 
in  the  house  there.  Let  her  bring  her  own  mes- 
sages. Go  back  and  tell  Fanny  that  I  '11  not  go 
till  she  herself  tells  me  to." 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Cowardin  had  hardly  reached 
the  street  before  the  Colonel's  wife  went  to  sister 
Jane  and  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm  as  of  old. 
"  Good-by,  Jane!  You  area  good  woman.  All 
the  rest  of  us  are  devils.    Where 's  William?  " 

She  came  out  into  the  hallway  as  she  asked  for- 
me, and  I  stepped  forward  and  barred  the  way. 
She  seemed  surprised  at  this,  and  I  thought  the 
shadow  of  a  contemptuous  smile  flitted  across  her 


324 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


face,  but  I  was  not  certain  :  yet  the  bare  thought 
of  it  rendered  me  less  infirm  of  purpose  than  be- 
fore. 

"  You  seem  to  be  glad  to  see  me  go,  William," 
she  said,  taking  the  hand  I  held  out  to  stay  her 
passage.  "  Well,  it  is  natural.  We  have  long 
misunderstood  each  other  :  you  have  taken  me  to 
be  a  fraud,  and  I  have  judged  you  to  be  a  fool. 
Right  or  wrong,  we  are  quits.  Good-by." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Bullard,"  I  said  with  a  firmness  that 
was  as  surprising  to  me  as  it  was  to  her,  "  it  is  not 
good-by.    You  are  to  remain  here." 

She  looked  hard  at  me  as  if  trying  to  read  my 
mind.  "  Then  you  are  a  fool,"  she  said  through 
her  clenched  teeth.  With  a  strength  for  which  I 
was  totally  unprepared,  she  wrenched  her  hand 
from  mine  and  whisked  past  me  in  the  hallway  like 
a  shadow.  She  was  fleet,  but  I  reached  the  outer 
door  as  she  did,  and  placed  both  hands  against  it, 
holding  it  shut  with  all  my  weight  and  strength, 
knowing  now  that  I  had  to  deal  with  a  desperate 
woman. 

But  even  this  knowledge  did  not  prepare  me  for 
the  tactics  she  employed.  She  seized  me  below 
the  waist,  dragged  me  suddenly  backwards,  and  I 
fell  prone  upon  my  hands  and  knees.  Before  I 
could  recover  myself,  she  had  wrenched  the  door 
open  and  was  gone.  But  she  never  crossed  the 
sidewalk.  As  she  jumped  through  the  door  I  heard 
Mr.  Cowardin  exclaim  :  — 

"  Look  to  yourself,  sir !  "  and  then  I  heard  a  re- 


AN  ANGRY  WOMAN. 


325 


port  like  a  pistol.  He  had  seized  the  whip  and 
brought  it  down  upon  the  backs  of  the  horses  with 
a  blow  so  powerful  that  it  sounded  like  an  explo- 
sion. The  creatures  gave  one  leap  forward,  and 
then  broke  into  a  wild  run.  Fortunately  they  kept 
in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  in  a  few  moments, 
as  we  three  stood  listening,  we  heard  them  settle 
down  into  a  steady  gallop,  which  showed  that  the 
man  in  the  buggy,  drunk  as  he  might  be,  had 
them  under  control. 

"  I 'm  sorry  I  did  n't  hit  the  man  instead  of  the 
horses,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin. 

"  Perhaps  you  '11  be  pleased  to  lay  it  on  my 
back,"  said  Mrs.  Bullard  with  smothered  rage. 
She  rushed  toward  him,  and  tried  to  wrench  the 
whip  from  his  hand.  But  she  made  only  one  ef- 
fort. The  knowledge  of  her  impotence  suddenly 
overcame  her,  and  all  her  strength  left  her.  She 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground  but  for  the  sus- 
taining arm  of  Mr.  Cowardin.  But,  such  was  her 
versatility,  if  I  may  use  the  word  here,  that  she 
recovered  almost  immediately. 

"  Don't  touch  me !  "  she  exclaimed  savagely. 

"  I  '11  not  hurt  you,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin 
gently.  "  If  I  have  come  between  you  and  your 
designs,  it  was  not  for  your  sake,  but  for  the  sake 
of  one  I  love  dearly.  You  '11  thank  me  for  what 
I've  done,  when  I  tell  you  the  news  I  have  for 
you.    But  we  must  go  inside." 

"  I  have  nowhere  else  to  go,"  she  said  simply. 
"  I  '11  not  go  back  yonder ;  I  '11  die  first !  "  She 


326 


SISTER  JANE. 


stretched  a  hand  toward  her  home,  looming  up  cold, 
dark,  and  solemn  in  the  darkness.  "  Who  are  you, 
sir,  that  you  are  bold  enough  to  take  advantage  of 
a  weak  woman  whom  you  know  nothing  of  and 
who  has  done  you  no  harm  ? "  Her  rage  rose 
again  as  she  turned  toward  Mr.  Cowardin. 

"Madam,  with  the  exception  of  your  husband 
and  your  own  family  no  one  in  the  world  has  a 
better  right  to  do  what  I  have  done,"  he  answered. 
"  I  have  some  news  for  you  that  is  of  more  im- 
portance than  anything  that  has  happened  to  you 
during  your  whole  life." 

"It  is  not  true,  sir,"  she  replied.  "  I  have  lost 
my  son,  I  have  lost  my  husband,  and  I  have  given 
up  my  home.  What  could  be  more  important  than 
these  things  ?  " 

"  Come  inside,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin. 

"  Yes,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  Fanny,  come  in !  " 
exclaimed  sister  Jane  from  the  darkness  of  the 
doorway,  and  her  voice  brought  us  all  back  to  the 
realities  of  every-day  life.  For  my  part,  I  was  be- 
ginning to  forget  on  which  end  I  stood,  so  astound- 
ing were  the  transactions  that  had  taken  place 
before  my  eyes. 

"  Excuse  me,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Bullard  in  a 
more  natural  tone ;  "  I  had  forgotten  where  I 
was." 

She  went  in,  and  Mr.  Cowardin  and  I  followed. 
The  Colonel's  wife  was  calm  enough  when  she 
got  inside  the  door  —  almost  too  calm,  it  seemed 
to  me,  after  the  tremendous  outbreak  that  has 


AN  ANGRY  WOMAN. 


327 


been  described.  But  I  could  see  that  the  fires  of 
anger  still  glowed  in  her  eyes ;  she  was  calm,  but 
still  desperate. 

The  noise  that  had  been  made  had  aroused 
Klibs  from  his  innocent  sleep,  and  Mandy  was 
holding  him  close  against  her  bosom  when  we 
returned  to  the  room.  Hearing  our  footsteps, 
and  possibly  suspecting  that  we  had  succeeded  in 
detaining  Mrs.  Bullard,  the  unfortunate  young 
mother  had  moved  her  chair  to  the  darkest  corner 
of  the  room,  where,  with  her  back  hair  falling  over 
her  shoulders  and  her  child  hugged  to  her  breast, 
she  could  safely  hide  from  human  eyes  whatever 
emotion  she  felt. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  the  Colonel's  wife,  turning  to 
Mr.  Cowardin,  "  what  is  the  information  you  have 
for  me  ?  I  hope  it  is  important  enough  to  excuse 
your  unmannerly  —  yes,  your  unmanly  —  conduct 
to-night.  Don't  think  you 'd  be  standing  there  or 
I  here  if  I  were  a  man  ;  or  if  there  was  a  man  in 
this  miserable  community  to  whom  I  might  appeal 
for  protection.  Wait !  "  she  said,  as  Mr.  Cowardin 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  speak.  Her  voice  was 
hard  and  cold.  "  Wait !  Don't  imagine  for  a 
moment  that  I  will  believe  a  word  you  say.  After 
what  I 've  seen  of  your  actions  to-night,  I  know 
you  are  capable  of  any  lie.  I  want  to  hear  how 
you  are  going  to  excuse  yourself."  Her  Virginian 
blood  and  grit  showed  to  advantage  here,  undoubt- 
edly, and  I  began  to  admire  her. 

Mr.  Cowardin  regarded  her  with  kindly  eyes 


328 


SISTEB  JANE. 


and  his  voice  was  very  gentle  when  he  spoke. 
"  Madam,  if  you  think  you  can  afford  to  wait  here 
five  minutes  until  I  can  go  across  the  street  and 
return,  I  shall  try  to  make  good  my  promise."  He 
paused  expectantly. 

"  What  can  I  do  but  await  your  pleasure  and 
convenience  ? "  she  asked  with  a  contemptuous 
smile.  "  Owing  to  you,  I  have  nowhere  to  go  even 
if  I  were  not  disposed  to  wait.  Pray  where  could 
I  go?" 

Mr.  Cowardin  regarded  her  with  a  puzzled  look. 
He  seemed  to  doubt  whether  he  had  followed  her 
meaning.  At  that  moment  neither  he  nor  I  had 
the  key  to  either  her  words  or  her  extraordinary 
actions.  But  he  turned  and  walked  down  the  hall- 
way. Just  as  he  reached  the  door  we  heard  a 
hasty  knocking.  He  opened  the  door  almost  be- 
fore the  knocking  ceased.  Then  we  heard  the 
voice  of  Colonel  Bullard. 

"  William  !  have  you  seen  "  —  Here  Mr.  Cow- 
ardin interrupted,  but  we  could  not  hear  the  words. 
"  Excuse  me,  sir ;  in  the  dark  I  mistook  you  for 
William,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  Show  me 
the  way.    I  must  see  Jane  and  William !  " 

At  the  same  moment  the  Colonel's  wife  whisked 
out  and  across  the  hall.  I  saw  her  enter  the  room 
that  had  been  given  up  to  Mandy. 


XXIII. 


COLONEL  BULLARD'S  TROUBLES. 

As  Colonel  Bullard  entered  the  room  I  saw  that 
a  great  change  had  come  over  him.  His  gait  was 
unsteady.  A  letter  or  paper  that  he  held  in  his 
hand  shook  as  though  he  had  been  seized  with  a 
rigor. 

Sister  Jane  did  not  wait  for  him  to  speak.  She 
rose  and  stood  looking  at  him.  "  Cephas  Bullard, 
you  are  the  very  last  person  in  the  world  that  I 
ever  expected  to  see  darken  my  door  after  know- 
ing what  I  know  and  you  knowing  that  I  know  it 
—  the  very  last  person  in  the  world."  But  her 
voice  had  no  note  of  surprise  in  it ;  on  the  con- 
trary it  was  charged  with  indignation. 

"  I  was  compelled  to  come,  Jane.  My  darling 
wife  has  left  me  ;  here  is  her  letter.  I  am  a  ruined 
man,  Jane.  Have  you  seen  Fanny?  Has  she 
been  here,  William  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Colonel,  she  has,"  I  replied. 

"  She  came  to  say  good-by,"  remarked  sister 
Jane. 

"  Where  was  she  going,  Jane  ?  What  did  she 
say  ?  Did  she  leave  any  word  for  me  ?  Did  n't 
she  send  me  some  message?    Oh,  I  know  her 


330 


SISTER  JANE. 


heart,  J ane,  and  I  never  will  believe  that  she  went 
away  from  me  without  leaving  me  some  word  more 
satisfactory  than  this."  He  held  the  letter  on  a 
level  with  his  eyes,  his  hand  trembling  so  that  the 
paper  made  a  rattling  noise. 

"  She  said  she  was  going  away  from  this  hate- 
ful place  for  good  and  all,"  explained  sister  Jane. 
"  She  did  n't  tell  me  her  reasons,  and  I  did  n't 
ask  her,  because  I  know'd  'em  well  enough." 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  me,  Jane,"  he  pleaded. 

"  It  \s  not  me  that 's  hard  on  you,  Cephas  Bal- 
lard.   It's  your  own  wickedness." 

"  Oh,  it 's  true,  Jane  !  it 's  all  true  !  But  if  you 
only  knew  how  I  have  suffered  ;  if  you  only  knew 
the  agony  I  've  endured."  He  paused  as  if  seek- 
ing sympathy,  but  he  got  none.  I  was  shocked  at 
sister  Jane's  manner  until  she  spoke  again,  and 
then  the  whole  truth  that  I  had  been  utterly  blind 
to  before  burst  upon  me,  and  it  brought  with  it  a 
feeling  of  disgust  for  Colonel  Bullard  that  I  was 
long  in  overcoming. 

"  I  reckon  it 's  so  fixed  that  other  folks  can  suf- 
fer some  as  well  as  you,"  said  sister  Jane. 

She  stretched  forth  her  hand  and  pointed  to 
Mandy  Satterlee,  who  was  bending  so  low  above 
her  child  that  she  seemed  to  be  crouching  in  the 
rocking-chair.  Colonel  Bullard's  glance  followed 
the  direction  of  sister  Jane's  gesture,  and  he  shrank 
back  as  his  eye  fell  on  Mandy. 

"  You  are  right,  Jane,  and  I  am  wrong,"  he 
cried  in  a  broken  voice.    "  I 'm  a  terrible  sinner, 


COLONEL  BULLARD'S  TROUBLES.  331 


Jane.  That  is  why  my  dear  wife  has  left  me. 
That  man  Moreland  told  her  about  my  wretched 
sinfulness,  and  I  confessed  it,  Jane.  I  did  n't 
spare  myself.  I  ought  to  have  told  her  long  ago  ; 
but  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  confess,  J ane,  and  I 
never  had  the  courage.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to 
do,  —  and  yet "  (the  Colonel  lowered  his  voice) 
44 1  thought  —  oh,  I  fondly  hoped,  Jane  —  that  my 
dear  wife  would  forgive  me.  And  I  shall  always 
believe  that  she  would  have  forgiven  me  if  she 
had  known  how  I  love  her.  That  will  be  my  only 
comfort,  Jane,  if  I  ever  have  any  peace  of  mind 
at  all!  " 

I  could  but  remark  how,  even  in  the  midst  of 
his  penitence,  he  seemed  to  regard  his  own  trouble 
and  his  own  misery  as  of  more  importance  than 
all  other  troubles  and  miseries  put  together.  It  is 
the  way  of  the  world,  especially  the  way  of  man. 
I  have  seen  women  who  could  put  their  own  trou- 
bles aside  to  sympathize  with  the  miseries  of  others, 
but  I  have  never  seen  one  of  my  own  sex  who  had 
the  courage  or  the  generous  impulse  to  make  the 
attempt. 

46  You  say  she 's  been  here,  Jane,"  said  Colonel 
Bullard,  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  re-read  the 
letter  in  his  hand,  holding  it  close  to  the  candle. 
It  was  a  very  brief  note,  as  I  could  see,  and  doubt- 
less had  the  rare  merit  of  terseness. 

44  She  came  to  tell  us  good-by,"  remarked  sister 
Jane,  44  but  she  spun  it  out  into  a  good  many 
words." 


332 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  What  did  she  say,  Jane  ?  Did  she  seem  to 
be  particularly  bitter  against  me?  Oh,  that  I 
could  have  seen  her  for  one  moment !  "  he  ex- 
claimed in  a  despairing  tone. 

"  It's  jest  as  well  you  didn't,"  said  sister  Jane, 
with  an  abundant  lack  of  sympathy  in  her  voice. 
"  You  know  Fanny  Brandon  most  as  well  as  I 
do,  I  reckon,  and  you  can  figure  to  yourself  about 
what  she  said." 

"  That 's  the  way  she  signed  herself  here  — 
4  Fanny  Brandon.'  "  The  Colonel  spoke  as  if  he 
had  heard  nothing  that  sister  Jane  said  save  his 
wife's  maiden  name.  He  repeated  it  again  — 
"  Fanny  Brandon  "  —  and  then  slowly  placed  the 
letter  in  his  pocket  and  clasped  his  hands  behind 
him. 

"  I  '11  not  deny  that  I  expected  to  find  her  here, 
Jane,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "  At  least  I  hoped 
to  find  her  here.  But  that  is  not  all  I  came  for." 
He  turned  to  me  as  a  source  from  which  he  might 
expect  more  sympathy  than  sister  J ane  had  shown 
him.  "  I  came,  William,  to  make  what  reparation 
I  can.  Surely,  surely,  it  is  not  yet  too  late  for  me 
to  do  that.  It  ought  to  have  been  made  long  ago  ; 
but  it  is  not  too  late  —  don't  tell  me  it  is  too  late." 

Before  I  could  make  any  reply  —  indeed,  I 
knew  not  what  to  say  —  sister  Jane  spoke. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

Colonel  Bullard  hesitated,  and  then  drew  from 
Ins  pocket  a  roll  of  bank  bills,  and  laid  it  on  the 
candle-stand.    Released  from  the  pressure  of  con- 


COLONEL  BULL  ARB'S,  TROUBLES.  333 


finement  the  bills  slowly  swelled  out,  and  would 
have  fallen  to  the  floor  had  not  the  Colonel  reached 
forth  and  placed  his  hand  upon  them. 

"  Here  is  a  sum  of  money,  William.  I  want 
you  to  take  it  and  invest  it  for  the  benefit  of  Miss 
Satterlee  and  her  child.  If  the  sum  seems  too 
small,  I  am  willing  to  double  it  at  your  sugges- 
tion." 

It  was  curious  how  the  voice  of  the  Colonel 
assumed  a  business-like  tone  when  he  came  to  speak 
of  a  money  transaction.  Mechanically  I  reached 
my  hand  to  take  the  money,  but  I  drew  it  back 
quickly  at  a  word  from  Mandy  Satterlee.  She  had 
risen  from  the  rocking-chair,  and  now  stood  not 
far  from  sister  Jane.  She  had  placed  her  sleeping 
child  on  the  sofa.  Both  hands  were  held  to  her 
head  as  if  to  prevent  her  hair  from  falling  about 
her  face.  With  a  sweeping  gesture  she  flung  her 
hair  behind  her  and  stretched  forth  her  arm,  point- 
ing at  the  Colonel. 

"Take  your  money  away  from  here  !  Take  it 
away !  I  would  n't  tetch  it,  not  to  save  my  own 
life  —  much  less  your'n  !  Take  it  out'n  my  sight ! 
I  never  said  a  word  ag'in  you  in  my  life ;  not  by 
word  or  look  have  I  ever  laid  any  of  my  trouble 
at  your  door ;  and  yit  here  you  come  wi'  money  ! 
Miss  Jane,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  my  sister, 
"  this  man 's  a-takin'  a  mighty  heap  on  hisself.  It 's 
a  lot  more  my  trouble  than  it 's  his'n.  I  was  out 
there  in  the  woods,  lonesome,  an'  I  wanted  somethin' 
I  could  call  mine  —  somethin'  that 'd  be  my  own 


334 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


—  sometliin'  that  nobody  on  the  wide  earth  would 
dast  to  claim.  Here  it  is  !  "  She  stepped  swiftly 
to  the  sofa  and  kissed  her  child,  and  as  swiftly 
returned.  "  I  never  dreamed  of  the  trouble  an' 
misery  it 'd  bring  on  me  an'  other  folks,  an'  I 've 
suffered,  an'  I 'm  mighty  sorry,  —  I  '11  allers  be 
sorry,  —  but  I  'm  the  one  that 's  to  blame.  Make 
him  put  up  his  money,  Miss  Jane." 

Oh,  the  passion  of  motherhood !  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  began  to  realize  its  nature  —  its 
weakness  and  its  strength. 

"  What  can  I  do,  William  ?  "  said  the  Colonel. 
"  I 've  lost  my  son,  my  wife,  and  I  can  turn  no- 
where for  comfort  and  peace." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  exclaimed  sister  Jane. 
"  Where 's  your  Bible,  I 'd  like  to  know,  and  where 
are  your  prayers  ?  " 

"  No,  Jane  ;  I 'm  the  vilest  hypocrite  that  ever 
breathed  the  breath  of  life." 

"  If  you  reely  think  that,  Cephas  Bullard,  you  're 
already  a  long  ways  on  the  road  to'rds  forgiveness," 
said  sister  Jane. 

"  It  is  well  enough  to  talk  that  w^ay,  Jane,  but 
my  wife  is  gone.  If  you  knew  her  as  I  know  her 
you  would  know  what  that  means.  Jane,  I  love 
that  woman.  She  '11  never  forgive  me,  and  she  has 
run  away  with  a  man  she  used  to  know  when  she 
was  a  girl ;  but  if  she  were  to  come  back  to-night, 
to-morrow,  or  a  year  from  now  I 'd  be  glad  to  for- 
give her." 

"  You  would?  "  cried  sister  Jane. 


COLONEL  BULLARD'S  TROUBLES. 


335 


"  Most  assuredly,  Jane." 

"  Well,  you  're  one  among  a  thousand." 

Sister  Jane  had  hardly  spoken  the  words  before 
the  Colonel's  wife  glided  into  the  room,  and  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Did  you  say  you  could  forgive  me?"  she  cried. 
"  Oh,  if  you  can  forgive  me  I  can  forgive  you  !  " 
Her  whole  attitude  had  changed. 

The  Colonel  stood  stock-still  and  looked  at  his 
wife  in  a  dazed  way. 

"  Is  it  really  and  truly  you,  Fanny?  "  he  gasped, 
"  or  am  I  losing  my  senses  ?  "  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  face. 

She  answered  by  leaning  her  head  against  his 
shoulder  and  laughing  hysterically  —  a  laugh  that 
jarred  on  my  nerves  because  of  its  theatrical  flavor. 
And  yet  I  knew  that  such  a  laugh  —  strained  and 
artificial  —  was  intended  to  hide  emotions  that  led 
far  from  laughter. 

"  Fanny  !  Fanny  !  "  the  Colonel  cried,  "  you 
don't  know  how  you  have  frightened  me." 

"  I  am  worse  frightened  than  you  were,"  she  re- 
plied. She  clung  to  him  as  a  child  might.  Pres- 
ently her  eyes  met  mine.  She  ran  to  me  and  threw 
her  arms  about  me.  "  Oh,  William  !  You  don't 
know  what  you  have  saved  me  from  —  you  and 
Mr.  Cowardin  !  " 

She  ran  back  to  her  husband  and  clung  to  him 
almost  frantically.  He  caressed  her  as  though  she 
were  a  spoiled  child. 

"  I  thought  I  was  a  ruined  man,  Fanny.  I 


336 


SfSTER  JANE. 


knew  I  deserved  to  be,  but  it  was  so  hard  to  give 
you  up.  " 

He  clung  to  her  and  she  to  him,  and  I  saw  then 
that  they  had  come  to  a  clearer  understanding  than 
had,  perhaps,  ever  existed  between  them.  I  saw, 
too,  that  my  whimsical  and  unexplained  prejudices 
had  been  severely  unjust  to  the  lady.  For  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  understood  to  what  lengths 
the  rage  and  fury  of  jealousy  will  lead  a  woman 
of  spirit. 

"  Please  make  him  take  his  money,"  said  Mandy, 
touching  the  Colonel's  wife  gently  on  the  shoulder. 
"  I  would  n't  tech  it,  not  to  save  a  thousand  lives." 

"  I  '11  relieve  you  of  it,"  remarked  the  Colonel's 
wife  with  a  slight  frown.  She  took  the  money, 
rolled  it  tightly,  and  placed  it  in  her  belt. 

"  I  think  we  will  go  now,"  suggested  the  Colonel. 
"  Jane,  I  am  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you.  I  trust 
you  will  forgive  me." 

"  Well,  there  's  been  a  good  deal  of  forgiving- 
going  on  around  here,"  said  sister  Jane.  "  If  you 
feel  any  better  you  need  n't  worry  about  me.  But 
I  '11  say  this,  I 've  got  a  lots  better  opinion  of  you 
than  I 'd  'a'  had  if  you  had  n't  'a'  worried  me  in 
jest  the  way  you  have.  You  ain't  half  as  good  as 
you  might  be,  but  you  're  a  heap  better  than  I 
thought  you  was." 

"But  I  love  him,  Jane,"  the  Colonel's  wife 
asserted,  as  if  that  disposed  of  the  matter. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  do,"  said  sister  Jane.  "  I 
don't  expect  everybody's  stomach  to  be  as  weak  as 


COLONEL  BULLARD'S  TROUBLES.  337 

mine  when  it  comes  to  lovin'  folks.  Where 's 
Mary  all  this  time  while  you  two  are  a-prancin'  an' 
a-caperin'  up  and  down?  " 

"  We  must  be  going,  Fanny,"  the  Colonel  in- 
sisted. "  It  would  n't  do  to  have  that  child  fright- 
ened at  our  absence." 

"  Mary  's  perfectly  happy,"  replied  the  Colonel's 
wife.  "She's  deep  in  one  of  William's  books. 
But  we  ought  to  go.  Jane,  I  hope  you  '11  not  be 
too  hard  on  me.  I 'm  happier  now  than  I  've  been 
in  years." 

"  I  'in  truly  glad,  Fanny,  "  replied  sister  Jane. 
"  It  takes  so  mighty  little  to  make  folks  happy, 
that  I  wonder  there  ain't  more  of  it  in  the  world. 
If  we  keep  a  sharp  lookout  we  '11  get  our  share  of 
it,  I  reckon." 

The  Colonel  and  his  wife  bade  us  good-night, 
and  were  going  away  when  we  heard  footsteps  in 
the  hallway,  and  in  came  Mr.  Cowardin,  ushering 
in  the  man  I  had  seen  riding  in  the  Moreland 
buggy.  He  was  completely  sober  now,  and  I 
knew  him  at  once  as  Mandy's  brother  Sandy.  She 
knew  him,  too,  and  ran  to  him,  crying,  "  Why 
Bud,  what 's  the  matter  ?  Have  they  took  you 
prisoner  ?  " 

For  answer  he  said  :  "  Howdy,  Mandy  ;  you  're 
lookin'  monstus  peart."  His  sister's  hand  was  on 
his  shoulder,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  greet  her 
in  a  brotherly  fashion.  He  stood  stolidly,  almost 
stupidly,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  the  bad  opinion  I 
had  of  him  grew  rapidly  worse. 


338  SISTER  JANE. 

Mr.  Cowardin  had  summoned  the  Colonel  and 
his  wife  back,  and  the  lady  remarked  as  she  re- 
entered the  room,  "  I  had  almost  forgotten  you, 
Mr.  Cowardin,  and  that  means  I  have  forgiven  you 
for  what  I  thought  was  your  rudeness  awhile  ago." 

"  It  means,  too,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin,  "  that  you 
had  forgotten  about  the  interesting  information  I 
had  promised  to  give  you." 

"  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  it  entirely,"  the  Colonel's 
wife  confessed.    "  I  am  so  happy,  you  know." 

"  In  that  case,  we  may  as  well  postpone  the  story 
this  man  has  to  tell.  Satterlee,  I  '11  not  need  you 
until  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  no,  squire  ;  you  can't  come  that  game," 
protested  Sandy.  "  When  I  go  out  of  that  door 
out  yonder  I  ain't  comin'  back  no  more  tell  I  send 
fer  Mandy.  Oh,  no,  squire  ;  I  don't  want  nobody 
a-doggin'  arter  me  arter  to-night." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  Colonel.  "  It  is  pos- 
sible that  he  knows  about  our  son,  Fanny —  our 
darling  child  that  was  lost." 

"  Oh,  is  it  that  f  "  cried  the  Colonel's  wife. 

Sandy  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  either  one. 
"  You  've  done  the  right  thing  by  me,  squire,  an' 
I  '11  do  the  right  thing  by  you.  But  I  '11  tell  you 
now,  I  'm  not  gwine  to  hang  on  the  pleasure  of 
that  feller  —  no,  I  '11  be  danged  ef  I  do  !  An' 
I  '11  not  be  dogged  arter." 

"  Then  tell  what  you  know,  and  be  done  with  it," 
said  Mr.  Cowardin. 

What  Sandy  told,  the  reader  may  have  suspected 


COLONEL  BULLARTy S  TROUBLES. 


339 


from  the  first,  though  the  fact  did  not  dawn  on  me 
until  the  man  entered  the  room.  He  had  stolen 
Freddy  Bullard,  made  good  his  escape,  and  at 
last  dropped  him  on  the  wagon  trail  in  the  far 
West,  where  he  was  found  by  Mr.  Cowardin. 
Sandy  Satterlee  had  no  qualms  of  conscience.  He 
was  sorry  for  the  child,  but  he  suffered  no  remorse 
over  what  he  had  done.  When  he  had  concluded, 
he  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said :  — 

"  Now,  ef  there  's  anybody  aroun'  here  that  wants 
to  know  why  I  took  the  baby  jest  let  'em  up  an' 
say  so,  an'  I  '11  tell  'em  why.  An'  ef  there 's  any- 
body here  that  wants  to  drag  me  up  in  court  about 
it,  let  'em  drag." 

The  Colonel,  holding  his  wife's  hand  in  one  of 
his,  patted  it  gently,  as  he  replied  :  "  No,  sir  ;  there 
is  no  one  to  make  any  complaint.  My  friends  here 
all  know  why  you  took  the  child.  You  caused  the 
innocent  to  suffer  ;  but  that  was  my  fault  —  all 
my  fault.  I  have  taken  all  the  blame.  I  know 
that  the  Almighty  has  not  entirely  forsaken  me, 
for  He  has  had  my  boy  restored  to  me." 

Sandy  seemed  to  be  very  much  disappointed  at 
this,  or  else  I  mistook  the  expression  of  his  face. 
He  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  beard  in  a  dazed  way. 

"  Dang  it  all,  squire !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
turned  to  •  Mr.  Cowardin.  "  I  allowed  I 'd  git  my 
head  took  off  over  here,  an'  I  come  primed  to  do 
some  taking  on  my  own  hook." 

"  Then  you 'd  better  take  yourself  off  somewhere 
and  try  to  l'arn  to  be  honest,"  said  sister  Jane 


340 


SISTER  JANE. 


quick  as  a  flash.  "You  ain't  worth  the  powder 
an'  lead  it 'd  take  to  kill  you." 

"  Phew !  "  whistled  Sandy  under  his  breath. 
"  Show  me  the  door,  squire,  an'  I  '11  jest  hop  across 
the  street  an'  jump  in  bed." 

When  Sandy  was  gone,  the  Colonel's  wife  was 
wild  to  see  Freddy ;  she  insisted  that  he  should  be 
roused  from  his  sleep  so  that  she  might  carry  him 
home.  But  Mr.  Cowardin  was  not  to  be  prevailed 
upon.  He  would  not  permit  the  child  (as  he  said) 
to  jump  out  of  sleep  into  conditions  so  new  to  his 
experience ;  and  though  the  Colonel's  wife  added 
both  tears  and  threats  to  her  entreaties,  Mr.  Cow- 
ardin remained  obdurate.  For  one  more  day,  he 
said,  the  child  should  be  his.  Then  Mrs.  Bullard 
changed  her  ground.  Might  she  see  her  child  as 
he  lay  sleeping  ?  Certainly,  if  she  would  solemnly 
promise  not  to  arouse  him.  So  the  mother  and 
father,  with  Mr.  Cowardin,  sister  Jane,  and  myself, 
went  on  tiptoe  to  the  lad's  bedside.  And  he  made 
a  beautiful  picture  as  he  lay  there,  rosy  with  health, 
dreaming  pleasant  dreams  that  brought  a  faint 
smile  to  his  half-parted  lips.  His  mother  crept 
toward  him  and  gazed  at  him  with  clasped  hands, 
smiling,  although  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 
Then,  quick  as  a  flash,  she  stooped  and  kissed  him. 
The  child  stirred,  but  did  not  open  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  hoped  he  would  wake !  "  she  whispered, 
as  she  turned  away. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Mr.  Cowardin  in  a  warning 
tone. 


COLONEL  BULLARD'S  TROUBLES.  341 


"  Oh,  I  think  it  is  cruel  not  to  allow  us  to  take 
our  child  home ! "  said  the  Colonel's  wife.  She 
seemed  to  be  greatly  agitated. 

"  It  may  seem  so,"  replied  Mr.  Cowardin.  "  But 
his  mind  must  be  prepared  for  the  great  change 
that  has  taken  place  in  his  condition.  I  must 
teach  him  "  —  he  paused,  looked  hard  at  the  flame 
of  the  candle,  and  stroked  his  beard  —  "  that  there 
are  others  he  must  care  for  more  than  he  has  ever 
cared  for  me." 

"  Might  we  not  be  depended  on  to  do  that?" 
The  voice  of  the  Colonel's  wife  was  gentle,  but 
there  was  something  about  it  that  jarred  on  my 
nerves. 

"  That  is  the  trouble,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Cow- 
ardin ;  "  that  is  a  part  of  the  infliction.  But  you 
will  have  to  excuse  me."  He  crossed  the  hallway, 
went  into  the  lad's  room,  and  closed  the  door  after 
him. 

By  one  word,  sister  Jane  covered  his  retreat  and 
changed  the  current  of  our  thoughts.  "  Which  one 
of  you  had  the  good  manners  to  thank  the  man  for 
what  he  has  done?"  she  asked  bluntly. 

Mrs.  Bullard  started  impulsively  into  the  lad's 
room  again,  but  sister  Jane  stopped  her. 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  get  on  my  knees  and  thank  him, 
Jane.    I  '11  not  speak  above  a  whisper." 

"  No  ;  don't  go  in  there.  There 's  plenty  of 
time  for  thanks.  Go  home  and  dream  over  your 
good  luck,"  said  sister  Jane. 

Whereupon  the  Colonel  and  his  wife  bade  us 


342 


SISTER  JANE. 


good-niglit,  and  went  home  by  way  of  the  street  in- 
stead of  by  way  of  the  garden. 

It  was  owing  to  this  fact  that  Mary  missed  them 
when  she  came  running  through  the  garden.  She 
was  laughing  when  she  entered  the  room,  but  her 
face  wore  a  scared  expression,  and  I  thanked 
Heaven  that  she  had  not  seen  and  heard  all  that 
had  happened  near  where  she  now  stood. 

She  had  been  reading,  she  said,  and  had  not 
noticed  how  quiet  the  house  was  until  she  closed 
her  book.  The  servants  had  all  retired,  and  she 
went  to  her  mother's  room.  Finding  no  one  there 
she  roused  the  house  girl  and  searched  the  house. 
Then  she  came  running  through  the  garden,  think- 
ing to  find  her  mother  talking  to  sister  Jane.  She 
was  surprised  that  her  father  had  also  paid  us  a 
visit,  and  seemed  pleased,  too. 

"  I  could  tell  you  some  mighty  good  news,"  re- 
marked sister  Jane,  "  but  I  reckon  I  '11  have  to 
leave  it  to  William  as  he  takes  you  back  home. 
If  you  stay  to  hear  it  your  folks  '11  think  you 've 
run  away." 

So,  as  we  walked  through  the  garden,  the  weather 
being  warm  and  fine,  I  told  her  as  briefly  as  I 
could  ("suppressing  Sandy  Satterlee's  motive  alto- 
gether, and  making  him  out  a  worse  villain  than  he 
really  was  —  for  which  I  hope  Heaven  will  forgive 
me)  how  her  brother  had  been  stolen,  and  how  he 
had  been  recovered  and  brought  back  by  Mr.  Cow- 
ardin.  Whereupon,  Mary,  womanlike,  insisted  on 
going  back  to  see  her  brother  as  he  lay  asleep.  I 


COLONEL  BULL  ARB'S  TROUBLES.  343 

told  her  the  objections  to  this,  and  protested  as 
strongly  as  I  could  where  Mary  was  concerned, 
but  she  pleaded  so  prettily  and  with  such  sweet 
eloquence,  that  I  was  fain  to  turn  back  with  her 
and  to  be  the  means  of  gratifying  her  desire  to  see 
once  more  the  brother  she  had  long  mourned  as 
dead. 

We  returned,  therefore,  much  to  the  surprise  of 
sister  Jane.  Mr.  Cowardin  was  very  gracious  in 
the  matter.  He  was  willing  that  Mary  should  see 
her  brother,  and  I  noticed  that  he  did  not  lay  her 
under  the  injunction  of  silence.  She  stood  by  the 
lad's  bed  and  gazed  on  him  with  heaving  bosom. 
Then  she  knelt  at  the  bedside,  burying  her  face 
in  her  hands.  She  came  out  smiling  beautifully 
through  her  tears. 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  ?  "  she  cried,  giving 
Mr.  Cowardin  both  her  hands.  He  held  them,  I 
thought,  a  trifle  longer  than  good  taste  demanded, 
regarding  her  all  the  while  as  if  his  mind  were  far 
afield.  My  idea  of  his  violation  of  good  taste,  or 
etiquette,  or  whatever  you  may  please  to  call  it, 
was  blown  to  the  four  winds  by  his  next  words. 

"It  would  please  me  very  much,"  he  replied, 
"  to  hear  you  call  me  4  Uncle  Clarence '  the  next 
time  I  see  you." 

"  But  if  you  are  not  Uncle  Clarence  ?  "  Mary 
suggested  in  a  half-frightened  way. 

"  But  if  I  am,"  he  insisted. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Mary,  turning  away 
from  him  and  going  to  sister  J ane. 


344 


SISTEE  JANE. 


"  No,  it  is  not  easy  for  a  little  gir]  to  under- 
stand," he  remarked  with  something  like  a  sigh. 
"  But  no  matter.  It  is  not  absolutely  necessary  for 
you  to  call  me  '  Uncle  Clarence.'  " 

"  But  I  want  to,  if  "  — 

"If  he 's  the  genuine  article,  guaranteed  not  to 
rip  in  the  seams  or  frazzle  at  the  sleeves,"  laughed 
Mr.  Cowardin. 

"  Wait !  I  '11  tell  you  whether  he 's  your  Uncle 
Clarence  or  not,"  said  sister  Jane.  "  Hold  this 
candle,  William."  She  put  on  her  "  sewing-specs," 
as  she  called  them,  went  forward  in  a  business-like 
way,  placed  one  hand  over  Mr.  Cowardin's  beard 
and  the  other  over  his  mouth,  turned  his  face  to 
the  left  and  then  to  the  right,  and  subjected  him 
to  the  closest  inspection.  She  saw  what  poor  Mrs. 
Beshears  must  have  seen  the  night  she  scrutinized 
the  gentleman's  countenance. 

"  If  it  ain't  him  you  may  kill  me  dead ! "  she 
exclaimed,  turning  to  Mary.  "  I  ought  to  'a' 
know'd  him  long  ago.  Clarence  Billiard  !  what 
on  earth  do  you  mean  by  changing  your  name 
and  acting  like  this  ?  What  have  you  done  to  be 
ashamed  of  your  own  name  ?  I  hope  to  the  Lord 
you  ain't  one  of  Murrell's  men." 

"  I  have  n't  changed  my  name  at  all,"  he  said, 
laughing  genially.  "  I  merely  lopped  off  the  Bul- 
lard  when  I  left  home." 

"  It  brought  you  good  luck,  I  reckon,"  remarked 
sister  Jane.  "  Mary  here  will  have  to  change  her 
name  before  she 's  right  happy." 


COLONEL  BULL  ARB'S  TROUBLES. 


345 


And  Mary,  innocent  child,  not  seeing  the  deep 
meaning  of  the  words,  merely  laughed  at  the  con- 
ceit, as  she  said  :  — 

"  My  uncle's  name  was  Clarence  Cowardin  Bul- 
lard.  It  is  written  out  so  in  all  his  school-books. 
Oh,  I  hope  you  are  he !  "  she  cried  still  doubtfully. 
"  I  should  be  so  happy  !  " 

"  Go  and  be  happy  then,  my  dear.  You  cer- 
tainly deserve  to  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
world.  Good-night !  "  She  ran  to  him  and  kissed 
him,  at  which  he  seemed  to  be  mightily  pleased. 

I  may  as  well  say  here  that,  to  my  mind,  there 
is  nothing  so  stupid  as  a  mystery  that  seems  to  be 
without  excuse,  and  I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me, 
imagine  why  Clarence  Bullard  should  change  his 
name  and  go  strolling  about  the  country  from  post 
to  pillar.  I  think  he  saw  something  of  this  in  my 
face,  for  he  seized  the  first  opportunity,  when  there 
was  no  one  to  hear  him  but  sister  Jane  and  myself, 
to  touch  upon  the  matter. 

"  A  man  never  has  an  idea  of  his  own  until  he 's 
thirty,"  he  remarked. 

"Thirty!"  exclaimed  sister  Jane.  "You'd 
better  say  eighty  !  " 

"  'T  would  come  nearer  the  mark,"  he  replied. 
"  But  I  was  a  mere  lad,  though  a  pretty  wild  one, 
when  I  left  home.  I  had  a  tremendous  quarrel 
with  my  brother,  and  fresh  fuel  was  added  to  my 
anger  by  the  fact  that  he  told  me  some  very  un- 
wholesome truths  about  my  conduct.  At  bottom, 
as  I  know  now,  I  was  more  disgusted  with  myself 


346 


SISTER  JANE. 


than  with  him,  but  I  was  sure  then  that  I  hated 
him  so  vigorously  and  resented  his  authority  so 
keenly  that  I  despised  the  very  name  of  Bullard. 
The  feeling  was  so  strong  in  me  that  it  was  months 
before  it  cooled  down,  and  by  that  time  I  had 
lopped  off  the  Bullard  part  of  my  name.  Even 
then  I  was  sure  I  had  done  right,  and  for  years  I 
hugged  the  delusion  that  my  brother  had  driven 
me  from  home  with  the  intention  of  robbing  me  of 
my  share  of  the  property.  The  truth  is,  he  never 
drove  me  from  home  at  all,  but  simply  refused  to 
supply  me  with  funds  until  I  had  reformed." 

"  He  did  n't  want  to  be  Satan's  banker,"  re- 
marked sister  Jane,  "  no  matter  how  close  he  got 
to  the  Old  Boy  in  other  ways." 

"  Precisely  so,"  he  assented  with  a  smile.  "  It 
was  not  until  I  found  the  child,  and  began  to  feel 
that  I  had  a  responsibility  on  my  shoulders,  that 
I  began  to  realize  what  a  fool  I  had  been.  Don't 
be  deceived  in  me,"  he  said  with  a  more  serious 
air  than  I  had  ever  seen  him  assume.  "  It  is  only 
very  lately  —  only  during  the  last  half  dozen  years 
—  that  I  have  played  the  part  of  a  gentleman.  The 
rest  of  the  time  I  have  played  the  part  of  a  vaga- 
bond. Don't  imagine  I  was  a  very  nice  man  when 
you  saw  me  at  the  circus,  or  that  I  had  any  kind 
feelings  for  my  brother.  What  I  wanted  to  do 
was  to  find  his  child  and  restore  him  with  the  words  : 
4  That  is  the  way  I  repay  you  for  robbing  me  of  my 
own !  '  I  was  a  vagabond,  indeed,  but  a  romantic 
one,  don't  you  think  ?  " 


XXIV. 


THE  END  OF  THE  SKEIN. 

Once  more  I  walked  with  Mary  through  the 
garden.  The  September  dew  had  moistened  the 
air,  and  saturated  it  with  the  rich  perfume  of  the 
roses  that  had  now  begun  to  renew  the  glory  of 
their  springtime  bloom.  Though  I  was  with  Mary, 
I  had  a  sense  of  loneliness  that  I  found  troublesome 
to  account  for.  Whether  the  sensational  events 
of  the  past  few  hours  had  depressed  me,  or  whether 
my  own  thoughts  had  suddenly  taken  on  a  melan- 
choly hue  and  flavor  I  could  not  say. 

We  walked  along  in  silence  until  nearly  opposite 
the  summer-house  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
garden.    Finally  Mary  spoke  :  — 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  happy  and  thankful !  "  she  cried. 
"  It  is  just  like  a  story  in  a  book." 

"  No,"  said  I ;  "  in  books  of  the  lighter  kind 
chance  and  accident  try  to  play  the  part  of  Provi- 
dence, but  neither  one  is  orderly  enough.  It  was 
no  accident  that  caused  your  Uncle  Clarence  to 
bring  Freddy  back." 

I  then  told  her  all  the  circumstances,  as  Clarence 
Bullard  had  told  them  to  me. 

"  Well,  we  have  found  what  we  lost,"  she  said 
at  last. 


348 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


"  Xo.  we  have  not."  I  replied.  I  was  not  too 
melancholy  to  be  contentions.  "  I  hare  lost  some- 
thing that  I  cannot  find  again  and  never  expect  to." 

Oh  !  "  she  cried.  Then,  after  a  pause.  What 
was  it  ?  " 

"  Why.  years  ago  I  lost  a  little  sweetheart,  and 
I  have  never  been  able  to  find  her  since." 

'•Did  she  die?  "  Mary  asked.  She  spoke  in  so 
low  a  tone  that  I  barely  caught  the  words. 

"  Oh.  no !  "  I  replied  with  a  miserable  attempt 
at  levity  :  "  she  just  grew  up  and  '  from  me  fled,' 
as  Jincy  Meadows  said  in  the  soDg." 

She  made  no  response,  but,  somehow,  we  had 
paused  under  the  stars  in  the  garden  walk,  and 
the  odor  of  the  roses  wrapped  us  round.  I  was 
never  more  frightened  in  my  life,  and  my  heart 
went  down  into  my  shoes  as  I  suddenly  asked  my- 
self what  sister  Jane  would  say  if  she  could  have 
heard  what  I  had  already  said,  and  could  see  me 
standing  there  staring  at  Mary  like  a  fool.  The 
thought  made  me  more  desperate  than  ever,  and 
I  made  another  plunge. 

"  Yes  :  I  lost  my  little  sweetheart  in  the  summer- 
house  yonder.  She  put  her  arms  around  my  neck, 
kissed  me,  and  said  she  would  always  be  my  little 
sweetheart.  She  was  only  twelve  years  old,  but 
after  that  she  gradually  disappeared,  and  a  young 
lady  appeared  in  her  place." 

"  Do  you  really  remember  that  ?  "  Mary  asked, 
looking  me  in  the  face. 

"  Is  it  so  easy  to  forget  such  things  ?  " 


THE  END  OF  THE  SKEIN. 


349 


She  made  no  reply  but  looked  off  into  the  night. 
"  Do  you  remember  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

Still  she  made  no  reply,  but  the  dim  light  of  the 
stars  showed  me  something  in  her  face  that  was 
more  eloquent  than  any  words  could  have  been. 
And  I  drew  her  toward  me  and  held  her  in  my 
arms,  and  began  at  that  instant  a  new  life  and  a 
new  experience  blissful  beyond  all  expression. 

How  long  we  stood  there  I  do  not  know.  It  was 
Mary  herself  who  brought  me  back  to  the  world 
and  its  affairs. 

"  Please,  please  tell  me  what  you  could  see  in 
me  to  be  afraid  of  ?  " 

A  dozen  other  questions  she  put  to  me  none  of 
which  I  could  answer.  When  I  bade  her  good- 
night at  last,  and  turned  away,  she  called  me  back. 

"  Tell  me  truly,"  she  said,  "  were  n't  you  just 
a  little  bit  jealous  of  Uncle  Clarence  when  you 
thought  he  was  Mr.  Cowardin  ?  " 

"  More  than  a  little,"  I  replied  with  such  em- 
phasis as  to  cause  her  to  laugh. 

There  was  a  pause  after  this  and  I  stood  awk- 
wardly waiting  to  be  dismissed. 

"  Well,  sir  ?  "  she  suggested  demurely. 

"  Good-night !  "  I  said  again,  but  still  stood 
waiting.    She  came  very  close  to  me. 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  say  good-night  ?  "  It  was 
the  sweetest  challenge  that  Innocence  ever  gave  to 
Timidity,  and  though  she  blushed  mightily,  I  did 
not  allow  the  challenge  to  pass. 

I  returned  home  in  a  very  exalted  state  of  mind, 


350 


SISTER  JANE. 


as  may  well  be  supposed.  I  seemed  to  be  walking 
on  the  air.  Unconsciously  I  was  whistling  a  gay 
melody  when  I  entered  sister  Jane's  room,  and  the 
sound^  was  so  unusual,  coming  from  me,  that  she, 
plodding  away  with  her  sewing,  looked  up  in  sur- 
prise. 

"You  must  'a'  had  a  mighty  tough  time  toting 
Mary  home,"  she  said  as  I  seated  myself.  "  I 
allowed  she  must  'a'  tripped  over  an  ant-hill  and 
broke  her  neck,  poor  gal." 

"  What  put  that  idea  in  your  head  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Why,  you 've  been  mighty  nigh  a  half  hour 
walking  up  to  Cephas  Bullard's  and  back  ag'in. 
I  can  shet  my  eyes  and  go  and  come  in  less  'n  five 
minutes,  and  not  be  bellowsed  neither." 

I  vouchsafed  no  explanation,  and  she  went  on 
with  her  work.  I  tried  to  sit  quietly  in  the  chair, 
but  the  effort  was  beyond  me.  I  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  my  legs,  moved  my  feet  about  and  con- 
stantly changed  my  position,  and  caught  myself 
unconsciously  snapping  my  thumbs  and  fingers. 

"  What  did  Mary  have  to  say  about  her  uncle?  " 
asked  sister  Jane. 

"  Oh,  Mary  !  "  I  replied,  coming  back  to  earth. 
My  thoughts  were  so  abstract  and  unusual  that 
even  the  name  of  my  dearest  had  a  strange  sound 
when  spoken  by  other  lips.  "  Well,  Mary  did  n't 
have  much  to  say." 

Sister  Jane  looked  at  me  again,  and  this  time 
more  narrowly. 

"  What  under  the  sev'm  stars  has  come  over 


THE  END  OF  THE  SKEIN. 


351 


you,  William  Wornum  ?  You  're  setting  there 
acting  for  all  the  world  like  a  jumping-jack ! 
Have  you  got  the  fidgets?  And  what  are  you 
grinning  at  ?  You  look  like  you 'd  seen  a  monkey 
show  out  there  in  the  garden."  Then  the  truth 
seemed  to  dawn  on  her,  and  she  burst  out  laughing, 
and  laughed  till  the  tears  came  in  her  eyes.  "  I  '11 
bet  a  thrip  to  a  ginger-cake  that  Mary  got  you  in  a 
corner  out  there  in  the  garden  and  asked  you  to 
marry  her." 

"  She  did  nothing  of  the  kind !  "  I  cried,  embar- 
rassment lending  more  heat  to  my  words  than  the 
occasion  demanded! 

"  I  know  better,  William  Wornum.  I  told 
Mary  no  longer  than  yesterday  that  if  she  ever  got 
you,  she 'd  have  to  pop  the  question  herself.  And 
now  it 's  happened  !  She 's  asked  you  to  marry  her, 
and  you 've  told  her  you 'd  have  to  think  the  mat- 
ter over  before  you  made  up  your  mind." 

"  Nonsense !  What  do  you  take  me  for,  sister 
Jane  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  For  a  simpleton  that  has  had  his  head  between 
the  leds  of  books  so  long  that  he  don't  know  day- 
light when  he  sees  it,"  she  replied. 

"  Oh,  don't  I  ?    You  '11  know  better  shortly." 

The  humor  that  danced  in  her  eyes  faded  away 
into  a  tenderer  expression.  She  took  up  her  work 
again,  and  spoke  as  if  addressing  it :  — 

"  I  wish  I  may  die  if  I  don't  believe  he 's  had 
sense  enough  to  see  what  everybody  knows !  " 

"  What  is  that?  "  I  inquired. 


352 


SISTER  JANE. 


"  Why,  that  you  and  Mary  Bullard  have  been 
head  over  heels  in  love  wi'  one  another  sence  the 
year  1." 

"  Well,  good-night,"  I  said. 

"  Wait !  "  She  put  by  her  work,  came  to  me, 
pushed  the  hair  back  from  my  forehead,  and  kissed 
me.  "  The  Lord  knows,  if  she  loves  you  half  as 
well  in  her  way  as  I  do  in  mine  —  and  I  believe  in 
my  heart  she  does  —  you  '11  be  the  happiest  man 
in  the  world." 

Though  my  dear  sister  has  been  dead  for  years, 
I  can  close  my  eyes  now  and  feel  the  gentle  touch 
of  her  hands,  and  hear  the  notes  of  love  and  tender- 
ness ringing  true  in  the  tones  of  her  voice. 

The  day  after  my  memorable  experience  in  the 
garden  with  Mary  —  an  experience  that  softened 
and  subdued  all  the  events  of  my  life  both  before 
and  after  —  Jincy  Meadows  came  to  see  Mandy 
Satterlee.  He  came  dressed  in  his  best,  as  usual, 
but  this  time  he  wore  a  different  air.  There  was 
something  more  decisive  in  his  manner.  I  chanced 
to  be  in  my  room  when  he  knocked,  and  I  opened 
the  door  and  invited  him  in. 

"  Squire,"  he  said,  "  did  you  ever  ast  a  gal  to 
have  you  ?  " 

The  question  was  so  sudden  and  unexpected  that 
it  took  me  back  as  the  saying  is. 

"  That  is  a  leading  question,  Jincy,"  I  replied ; 
"  the  court  will  have  to  rule  it  out." 

"  Danged  if  I  don't  believe  you  have,  and  that 
right  lately !  "  he  burst  out  after  regarding  me  a 


TEE  END   OF  THE  SKEIN. 


353 


moment.  "  If  it 's  so,  I  hope  Miss  Mary  is  the  one 
you  ast." 

"  She  is  too  good  for  me,  Jincy,"  1  remarked. 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,  squire.  I  know  that  mighty 
well,"  he  assented  plumply.  "  She 's  too  good  for 
anybody,  when  it  comes  right  down  to  the  plain 
facts.  But  somehow  I  Ve  allers  coupled  you  two 
together  in  my  dreams.  Hundreds  of  times  in  my 
sleep  I 've  seen  Miss  Mary  and  you  a-walkin'  along, 
and  Mandy  and  me  a-comin'  along  behind.  And 
if  one  half  of  the  dream  is  to  come  true,  I  hope  to 
gracious  the  other  half  will  too." 

"  I  hope  so,  too,"  I  said. 

"  Honest,  squire  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  Why,  certainly.    Why  not  ?  " 

"  I 'm  mighty  glad  of  it,  squire  ;  and  I  tell  you 
now,  I 've  come  to  see  Mandy  about  them  very 
dreams.  Now,  how  can  I  git  a  fair  chance  for  to 
see  her  by  her  own  'lone  self,  as  it  were  ?  " 

"  Now  is  your  opportunity,  Jincy  —  as  good  as 
you  '11  ever  have.  Sister  Jane  has  gone  shopping, 
and  Mandy  is  in  the  room  back  there  doing  some 
mending." 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Squire,  do  I  have  to 
holla  4  Hello ! '  in  the  woods,  and  ring  a  cow-bell 
before  I  go  in  there  where  she 's  at  ?  " 

I  told  him  there  was  no  need  for  any  formality 
in  the  matter,  and  invited  him  to  go  right  in.  He 
shook  my  hand  with  humorous  gravity. 

"  Good-by,  squire.  If  you  're  writin'  any  letters 
to  anybody  soon,  remember  me  to  all  kind  friends 


354 


SISTER  JANE. 


I  love  so  dear,  and  over  my  grave  shed  one  bright 
tear." 

With  that  Jincy  walked  down  the  hallway,  tread- 
ing so  lightly  that  I  could  hardly  hear  his  footsteps 
on  the  floor.  Presently  I  heard  Mandy  give  a 
little  scream.  The  hallway  conveyed  every  sound 
to  me  through  the  open  doors. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried ;  and  then  after  a  pause, 
"  Jincy  Meadows !  you  oughter  be  ashamed  of 
yourself  to  come  slippin'  in  that  a-way.  Where 's 
everybody  ?    How  did  you  git  in  ?  " 

"  I  crawled  under  the  door,  but  don't  tell  any- 
body ;  they 'd  never  believe  it,"  Jincy  replied. 

"  You  might  'a'  knocked,"  protested  Mandy. 

"  I 've  knocked  about  so  much  that  I  don't  want 
to  do  any  more  knockin'.  Folks  might  think  it 
was  my  trade." 

"  Oh,  go  off,  Jincy !  "  cried  Mandy ;  and  then, 
"  Have  a  cheer.    I  dunno  where  Miss  Jane  is." 

"  No,  I  '11  not  set  down.  I 've  jest  come  to  tell 
you  a  dream." 

"  Oh,  you  're  allers  a-dreamin',  Jincy." 

"  I  don't  mind  it  when  I  don't  wake  up  hungry." 

"  Set  down  an'  tell  me  your  dream." 

Whereupon  Jincy  told  the  dream  he  had  hinted 
of  to  me,  only  amplifying  some  of  the  details. 

"  Now  you  reckin  that  dream  '11  ever  come  true, 
Mandy?"  he  asked. 

"  It  oughtn't  to,"  she  replied. 

"That's  mighty  hard  on  the  squire  and  Miss 
Mary,"  said  Jincy  calmly. 


THE  END   OF  THE  SKEIN. 


355 


"  Oh,  I  was  n't  talkin'  about  them"  protested 
Mandy. 

"  What 's  the  reason  the  other  part  ought  n't  to 
come  true?"  he  insisted. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  Jincy,  but  I  can  show  you." 

I  heard  her  cross  the  hall,  and  stupidly  wondered 
what  reason  she  could  show  him.  Then  as  she  re- 
crossed  the  hall,  the  truth  came  to  me  in  a  flash. 
She  had  gone  to  fetch  her  child  which  was  taking 
its  morning  nap. 

"  That 's  the  reason,  Jincy,"  she  said  sadly,  as 
she  returned  to  the  room. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  I  judged  that 
Jincy  was  subjecting  the  child  to  a  critical  exami- 
nation. 

"  I 've  seen  bigger  reasons,"  he  remarked  after 
a  while,  "  but  not  any  that  was  more  plumper,  as 
you  may  say." 

I  heard  him  walk  slowly  out  of  the  room  to  the 
wide  back  entrance,  where  he  stood  perhaps  half  a 
minute  chirruping  to  a  mocking-bird.  Then  I 
heard  him  walk  into  the  room  again. 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  are  you  cry  in'  for, 
Mandy  ?  I  jest  stepped  out  on  the  back  porch  to 
laugh." 

"  What  was  you  laughin'  at  ?  "  she  cried  with 
mingled  grief  and  indignation. 

"  Why,  because  you  said  I  was  going  to  git  in  a 
dispute  wi'  that  young  un." 

" 1  never  said  so,"  she  declared. 

»  Why,  you  did,  and  if  the  squire  was  here  I 'd 


356 


SISTER  JANE. 


prove  it.  You  said  the  young  un  was  a  reason. 
Now  a  reason  is  a  argyment,  and  a  argyment 's  a 
dispute,  and  on  account  of  the  dispute  the  most 
principal  part  of  my  dream  could  n't  come  true." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  mean  to  say  all  that,  Jincy." 

"  That 's  what  I  allowed.  Now,  I 'm  not  dis- 
putin'  wi'  the  young  un,  because  I  want  to  give  it 
the  identical  thing  it  needs." 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  inquired  Mandy. 

"  A  daddy  !  "  responded  Jincy  promptly,  and, 
as  I  thought,  bluntly.  "  Now,  I  '11  ast  you  why 
that  part  of  my  dream  can't  come  true  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  good  enough  fer  you,  Jincy."  Mandy's 
tone  was  full  of  despair. 

"  Well,  you  know  I  ain't  much,  nohow,"  said 
Jincy. 

"  I  don't  know  any  sech  of  a  thing,"  cried 
Mandy.    "  You  're  better  'n  anybody  I  know." 

"  Then  allers  take  the  best  when  it 's  no  trouble 
to  git  it.  What  about  the  dream  ?  Can't  it  come 
true?" 

"  Oh,  I  reckon." 

"Don't  reckon." 

"  Oh,  go  off,  Jincy  ;  I  '11  have  to  say  Yes  to  git 
rid  of  you,  you  pester  me  so  !  " 

After  a  little  Jincy  came  out,  but  I  made  it  con- 
venient to  be  standing  on  the  sidewalk  by  the 
gate. 

"  You  need  n't  remember  me  to  all  kind  friends 
I  love  so  dear,  squire,"  he  said,  shaking  my  hand 
again.    "  The  dream  done  the  business.  So  long  ! " 


THE  END  OF  THE  SKEIN. 


357 


Mandy's  announcement  of  the  affair  to  sister 
Jane  was  characteristic. 

"  I  reckon  I  'ni  the  biggest  fool  in  the  world," 
she  said  by  way  of  a  beginning,  and  then  went  on 
with  whatever  work  she  was  doing. 

u  What 's  the  matter  now  ?  Have  you  gone  and 
broke  a  piece  of  my  blue  chany?"  sister  Jane 
inquired. 

"  It 's  lots  worse  'n  that,"  replied  Mandy,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  If  it  is  you 'd  better  be  laughing  on  the  other 
side  of  your  mouth.    What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  jest  me  an'  Jincy,"  said  Mandy,  moving 
about  the  room  more  briskly  than  ever. 

"  Well,  what  about  you  an'  Jincy  ?  " 

"Did  n't  I  tell  you  I  was  a  fool  ?  "  Mandy  ex- 
claimed with  well-affected  surprise.  "  I  ain't  got 
a  grain  of  sense.  Who  is  Jincy  Meadows  anyhow  ? 
Ever'body  says  he 's  a  born  loony,  an'  I 'd  a  heap 
ruther  stay  here  wi'  you-all  than  to  marry  him  — 
a  heap  ruther." 

"  The  stars  above  !  "  cried  sister  Jane. 

"Ain't  it  the  truth!"  said  Mandy,  though 
apropos  of  what  I  failed  to  discover.  "  We  're 
allers  a-doin'  what  we  hain't  got  no  more  idee  of 
doin'  than  the  man  in  the  moon.  I  declare  to 
goodness !  When  I  think  of  what  a  fool  I  reely 
am,  it  turns  my  stomach.  But  that  Jincy  Mead- 
ows, he  come  in  here  an'  taken  me  so  by  surprise 
that  I  did  n't  know  my  own  name.  How  he  got 
in,  I  '11  never  tell  you,  but  git  in  he  did  ;  an'  when 


SISTER  JANE. 


I  up'd  an'  looked,  thar  lie  stood  wi'  his  han's  in 
his  pockets  an'  his  mouth  wide  open.  I  dunno 
but  what  his  tongue  was  a-hangin'  out.  He  like  to 
'a'  skeer'd  the  life  out'n  me." 

"  Then  up  you  jumped  and  run  to  him,  an'  says, 
'  Oh,  yes,  Jincy !  I  '11  have  you  and  thanky  too,'  " 
remarked  sister  Jane. 

"  Why,  Miss  Jane !  "  Mandy  blushed  red  as 
fire.  "  Please 'm  don't  talk  like  that.  We  got  to 
runnin'  on,  an'  he  told  me  about  a  dream  he  had, 
an'  a  whole  lot  of  fool  talk,  an',  before  I  know'd 
it,  I  had  done  up'd  an'  tol'  him  I  reckon  I 'd 
marry  him.  If  I  had  n't  'a'  done  it,  I 'd  'a'  never 
got  rid  of  him  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  I  never 
did  see  anybody  that  could  pester  me  like  Jincy 
Meadows  can.  I  never  had  no  more  idee  of  tellin' 
that  man  that  I 'd  marry  him  than  I  had  of  flyin' 
—  not  a  bit." 

"  Well,  you  might  'a'  done  worse,"  said  sister 
Jane.  "  Where  you 'd  'a'  done  better,  I  don't 
know.  Jincy  Meadows  has  got  more  sense  than  you 
and  me  and  William  all  put  together." 

"  You  reckon  !  "  exclaimed  Mandy  with  a  tone 
akin  to  awe  in  her  voice. 

"  I  know  it !  "  sister  Jane  declared. 

"  I  don't  keer,"  Mandy  protested  ;  "  his  havin' 
sense  don't  hender  me  from  bein'  a  fool.  I  know 
I  look  like  one." 

"  It 's  mighty  easy  to  be  one,"  was  sister  Jane's 
comment,  and  there,  for  the  time,  the  matter 
dropped. 


THE  END  OF  THE  SKEIN. 


359 


Late  that  afternoon  Clarence  Bullard  came  in 
with  our  lad.  The  two  had  been  off  in  the  woods, 
and  there,  in  the  solitude  of  the  forest,  Freddy  was 
told  the  facts  of  his  history  that  were  already  fami- 
liar to  sister  Jane  and  myself.  The  lad  did  n't 
seem  to  be  very  much  elated  over  the  change  in 
his  fortunes. 

"  Just  think  of  me  calling  Dan  6  Uncle  Clar- 
ence '  !  "  he  said  with  fine  scorn.  "  I  '11  bet  they  '11 
want  me  to  call  Miss  Jane  and  Mr.  William  by 
some  new  name.    I  won't  do  it !  " 

"  You  don't  have  to,  honey.  Jest  call  us  any- 
thing that  pops  into  your  mind,  and  if  we  know 
you  're  a-callin'  us  we  '11  come  a-runnin'  ! "  remarked 
sister  Jane  soothingly. 

"  Sure  enough  ?  "  The  frown  on  the  lad's  face 
gave  place  to  a  pleased  expression. 

"  Try  it  some  day,"  said  sister  Jane  with  great 
apparent  earnestness. 

The  youngster  laughed,  but  the  puzzled  expres- 
sion soon  came  back  on  his  face.  "  But  if  I  was 
to  call  Dan  6  Uncle  Clarence,'  he  would  n't  come  ; 
he  ain't  used  to  it." 

"  Call  me  plain  Dan  just  as  long  as  you  want  to," 
said  his  uncle. 

"  Yes,  but  I  '11  know  I  ought  not  to,"  the  lad  in- 
sisted. "  I  don't  mind  saying  4  sister  Mary,'  but  all 
the  rest  of  it  will  choke  me  before  I  get  through 
with  it  —  I  just  know  it  will." 

But  we  managed  to  soothe  him  after  a  while,  and 
when  he  had  dressed  himself  in  his  best,  which  was 


360 


SISTER  J  AXE. 


as  good  as  money  could  buy  in  our  village,  he  went 
with  his  uncle  to  his  father's  house.  Both  wanted 
sister  Jane  and  myself  to  go  with  them,  the  boy 
being  keen  for  our  company  ;  but  we  thought  that 
our  presence  at  such  a  time  would  be  in  the  nature 
of  an  intrusion.  So  we  sat  at  home  and  sent  our 
kindest  thoughts  and  best  wishes  along  with  our 
friends. 

It  was  all  a  seven  days'  wonder  in  the  village, 
especially  among  the  negroes,  who  imagined  that 
only  a  miracle  could  have  brought  the  child  safely 
home  after  so  long  a  time.  Old  Sol,  Colonel  Bul- 
lard's  man-of-all-work,  who  always  pretended  to  be 
wiser  than  anybody  else,  was  not  behindhand  now. 
When  I  saw  him  a  day  or  two  afterwards,  cleaning 
up  and  clearing  away  the  summer's  growth  in  the 
garden,  he  leaned  on  his  rake  long  enough  to  say  : 

"  I  know'd  in  reason,  Marse  William,  dat  dat  ar 
chil'  wa'n't  no  common  chil'.  Kaze  he  useter 
come  down  yander  ter  de  stable  whar  I  wuz  at,  an' 
he'd  sorter  mope  'roun'  like  he  los'  sumpin'.  I 
say,  I  did,  'What  de  matter,  honey?'  He  say, 
4  Look  like  ter  me  dey  ought  ter  be  a  gray  boss  in 
dat  stall  dar,  an'  a  side-saddle  hangin'  on  dat  peg 
dar.'  I  say,  4  Dey  useter  be  dar.  many 's  de  day 
gone  by,  but  how  come  you  ter  know  it,  honey  ? ' 
He  say, 4 1  dunno  how  come.  I  speck  I  des  up  an' 
dremp  it.'  I  shuck  my  head,  I  did,  an'  'low  ter 
myse'f,  4  Uh-uh !  sumpin'  n'er  gwine  ter  happen 
'roun'  yer  sho.'  An'  you  see  yo'se'f,  Marse  Wil- 
liam, what  done  happen." 


THE  END  OF  THE  SKEIN. 


361 


It  turned  out  that  the  lad  really  had  a  vague 
recollection  about  his  parents  and  his  home,  but  he 
was  ashamed  to  say  anything  about  it  at  the  time. 

Not  long  after  the  episodes  that  have  been  re- 
lated, another  event  occurred  that  had  a  sobering 
effect  on  some  of  our  people.  The  day  had  been 
sultry  for  September,  and  for  hours  not  a  breath 
of  wind  stirred  the  leaves  on  the  trees.  About 
three  o'clock  black  clouds  began  to  roll  in  from  the 
southwest.  Among  them,  and  in  the  centre,  was  a 
great  whorl  of  dun-colored  vapor  that  seemed  to 
rise  higher  and  reach  lower  than  the  rest. 

Before  I  could  realize  it  —  almost  before  I  could 
shut  the  doors  —  a  terrific  storm  burst  upon  us 
with  a  roar  so  deafening  and  a  force  so  violent  that 
it  seemed  as  if  the  great  globe  on  which  we  stood 
would  be  shaken  to  its  very  centre,  if  not  torn  apart. 
It  was  a  roar  such  as  might  be  expected  if  the 
thunders  of  heaven  should  drop  from  the  sky  and 
run  along  the  ground  trailing  their  deafening 
chorus  after  them.  The  storm  was  over  and  gone 
in  five  minutes,  being  followed  by  a  downpour  of 
hail.  Then  the  air  grew  cold  as  winter,  and  a  half 
hour  afterwards  the  sun  was  shining  as  brightly  as 
ever.  But  the  storm  left  with  me  a  new  knowledge 
of  the  weakness  and  impotence  of  man,  and  with  it 
came  a  feeling  of  depression  almost  unaccountable. 
And  yet,  as  I  found  out  afterwards,  the  centre  of 
the  storm  had  passed  a  mile  to  the  west  of  us,  strik- 
ing fairly  across  the  Beshears  place. 

Late  that  afternoon,  Mose,  who  was  still  the 


362 


SISTER  JANE. 


foreman  of  the  place,  came  knocking  at  our  door 
with  a  small  sack  full  of  gold  and  silver  coins  of 
all  descriptions  —  about  five  hundred  dollars  in  all. 
The  wind  had  blown  the  dwelling-house  to  atoms, 
and  in  the  ruins  of  one  of  the  chimneys  the  negroes 
had  picked  up  these  coins. 

A  feeling  of  sorrow  came  over  me  as  I  handled 
the  money.  This  was  the  precious  store  that  had 
been  hidden  away  by  Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky 
—  the  accumulation  of  years  of  pinching  and  sav- 
ing. The  hand  of  the  Almighty  had  lifted  the 
cover  from  their  hoard,  and  scattered  it  about  with 
the  rest  of  the  rubbish. 

I  wondered  that  the  negroes  did  not  appropriate 
the  money  for  their  own  use,  and  said  so. 

"  Well,  suh,"  explained  Mose,  "  dat  ar  money 
b'longed  ter  Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Becky.  Dey 
yearned  it,  an'  dey  hidden  it  dar.  Hit 's  der'n. 
Mo'  'n  dat,  dey  done  losted  der  min's,  an'  when  any- 
body taken  money  f um  folks  like  dat,  sump'n  bleeze 
ter  happen  to  um.    Dat  what  dey  tells  me." 

I  placed  the  money  in  custody  of  the  court,  glad 
to  be  rid  of  the  hoard  and  have  it  off  my  mind. 

What  remains  to  tell  has  practically  all  been 
told.  Heaven  was  kind  to  us  all,  and  especially  to 
me,  singling  me  out,  as  it  seemed,  for  as  much 
happiness  as  ever  falls  to  man's  lot  in  this  world. 
I  saw,  too,  that,  though  the  wounds  that  sin  makes 
may  be  deep  and  grievous,  the  sorrow  that  repent- 
ance brings  can  heal  and  hide  every  one.  We  saw 
Mandy  Satterlee  frequently  after  she  became  Mrs. 


> 


THE  END  OF  THE  SKEIN.  363 

Meadows,  and  though  she  was  cheerful  and  con- 
tented, the  light  of  penitence  was  always  in  her 
eyes. 

As  for  Colonel  Bullard,  he  gave  his  closing  years 
to  good  deeds,  and  if  penitence  did  not  shine  in  his 
eyes,  it  manifested  itself  in  his  life  and  made  its 
influence  felt  throughout  the  community. 


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